


Goin's all we Know

by crispy_bean



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grammatical errors?, Gratuitous use of the word You, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Reader (Star Wars), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Space Flight, Speeder Bikes (Star Wars), Strangers to Lovers, Update schedule?, absolutely - Freeform, allusions to trafficking, space is cool, straight up murder, unlikely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28928847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispy_bean/pseuds/crispy_bean
Summary: Survivors aren’t known to die, not before the hardest part. Not before the After.You are a survivor.And the galaxy will never apologize for it.~A space adventure of a Jedi who keeps running into a Mandalorian~
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	1. A smuggler walks out of a bar

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is my first time writing for the Star Wars fandom, although I have grown up with it.  
> If there are any canonical mistakes, or grammatical, feel free to let me know. 
> 
> Title is from Orville Peck's No Glory in the West
> 
> Take care and enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What starts off as the set up to a bad joke ends up in an arresting situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, welcome aboard. Do I know the destination? No. Do I know some of the scenic stops and detours? So far, yes. Will there be snacks? I bloody hope so. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

_A gentle face, a smile framed with tears, a small hand on your damp cheek. There are screams at your back and thunderous footsteps echoing around each corner. The shove you get is brutal. The wind whipping at your flailing limbs roars like watching you fall is funny, the fragility of your survival a pleasing joke._

_You should be dead._

_By order and by the laws of physics, you should be dead._

_But survivors aren’t known to die, not before the hardest part. Not before the After. The ground should have splintered you to pieces, strewn you across in a mosaic like an ill omen that came too late._

_But you are not an omen. You are a survivor._

_And the galaxy will never apologize for it._

~

Hiding among crowds has served well thus far. Your usual hunters cannot chance being known, which has been advantageous. It is easier to be nondescript when you’re alone. But that is who you are, who you have always been; alone among many.

Naboo was not your first choice of hiding places. It was smarter to hide somewhere smaller, foreign to trade routes, less populated. But when your hiding had caused a small community to be hurt in the crossfire before your very, _very_ , narrow escape, you went back to your old habits. Truth be told, there was an allure to large cities, ones that never stopped to take a breath. And Keren was certainly breath-taking. It was the Kwilaan spaceport that had gotten your attention first. With your stolen ship barely making it out of orbit and trailing an obvious cloud of smoke behind it, getting lost in such a busy stream of traffic was too tempting to pass up.

Inside one of the bars, cleaner and calmer than many you have been to, the mix of travellers, traders and Alderaanians serves as fine cover. No one seems to care about your plain clothes, a simple white shirt and dark blue overalls with a toolbelt hanging around your hips, nor the way you keep the one eye on the door and a hand beneath the table.

The din in the room is helpful. You find it easier to focus, to feel the forces around you to find the ones that don’t fit. You’re about halfway through your second drink when the man you had been watching finally stands up. He’s a smuggler, if you hadn’t already known that, you would have known by his clothes. A protective vest, a gun belt he didn’t bother to hide, and a jacket that just screamed ‘look at me, I’m dangerous and cool’.

Your target swaggers out of the bar and you give him a few seconds before you follow. Keeping an eye on him in the shifting crowd is tricky, his dark hair blending in with others and dark headpieces and hats. Someone bumps into you without an apology or any form of acknowledgement. You turn to snap at them and that’s when you finally notice.

Hiding has been your objective for two decades. In that time, you’ve learned about your pursuers, how they act, how they hide, their preferences for hideouts, their style of stealth. Hiding from them has become second nature and hiding from regular people has become almost child’s play. What you’re not ready for is to be hiding from a Mandalorian.

The helmet is trained squarely on you, never shifting to follow the crowd. At first, you had foolishly hoped that he had just noticed your encounter. But when the Mandalorian sees that you’ve noticed him, any intent of subtlety is abandoned. He strides through the crowd that parts for him with each step, making a beeline straight for you. It’s one thing to be chased by a bounty hunter or an imperial, but it is something else entirely to be chased by _this_. The crowd doesn’t part out of your way, but you’re much smaller and far quicker than the one chasing you. With some struggle, the crowd is left behind for back alleys and side streets. Residents huff and holler as you dash past them, trying to appear calm while rushing by. You were right about the Mandalorian, unfortunately, as you can still sense him following you. Gaining on you. But you are determined not to be captured. Not by him and not by the bastards who hired him.

You lose him down a small alley that’s more of a storage space. By the time the Mandalorian has barrelled into the alley, you’ve climbed to the balcony above him, watching as he slows to a predator’s crawl. He’s looking at the ground, at your footsteps that suddenly stop in the sand. You land behind him, a few steps away. The helmet must pick up the noise because the Mandalorian turns around with a gun aimed right at your chest.

“Easy there, big man.” You say, oddly calm. Despite the threat, you try for reason first, then violence if that doesn’t work.

“You the Havoc?” His voice is low, grating, and even calmer than you.

“Didn’t think they’d call me something so stupid.” It’s the first time you’ve ever met a Mandalorian, and all you can think of is the stories you’ve heard and the history you were taught so many years ago. If this was to end in a fight, you wouldn’t be walking away unscathed. “A Mandalorian working for the Empire seems strange. How much are they paying you?”

The Mandalorian straightens up, lowering his gun a little. “The Empire? Are you serious?”

You shrug. “Yeah, who else?”

“I’m with the Bounty Hunters’ Guild.”

It takes you a moment to register what he means. You heave out a sigh when you finally make the connection. “The Guild? Seriously? What do they want _me_ for?”

“Theft, arson, destruction of property… What does the Empire want with you?”

It’s foolish to talk to this Mandalorian, especially since he is aiming a gun at you. But it’s been so long since you talked to anyone that wasn’t a trader, a smuggler or someone trying to rob you. And the Mandalorian seems to not mind the chance to talk either.

“Same stuff, honestly. And because I’m… me.”

“I’m sure that’s a fun story, but I’ve got a bounty to collect.”

Your eyes are on the pistol, but your focus is on his other hand which reaches slowly behind him. As soon as you take a step back, the Mandalorian throws something towards you and that’s when you push back. The Force ripples through you, energy palpable between you and your target. The cable hangs mid-air as the Mandalorian shakes at the pressure of the Force pushing him back.

With one quick surge, you shove him back to stumbling before you’re off running. But then he shouts at you to stop and it’s the shaking in his voice that has you hesitating. Then there is a cable wrapped tightly around your arms and you brace yourself to pull against him. But the Mandalorian doesn’t pull you back. He’s breathing hard and holds up one hand in surrender.

“Wait-wait. Just… You’re a Jedi?”

“And you’re a Mandalorian.”

“They didn’t tell me…”

“It’s not something I advertise.” It would be easy to get out of the cable, to shove him back and disappear. You’re not sure what it is that tells you to stay, but you’ve felt this kind of _need_ to do something. This other influence or intuition that tells you whether or not you’re on the right path. Maybe it’s a Jedi thing, you don’t know, no one was there to tell you. But you’ve listened to it before and it hasn’t steered you wrong yet. “Look, I know I’ve messed up and upset some folks. But I’m being hunted, and I had to get away, for the sake of a lot of people, including myself. And right now, I need to go track down a smuggler in order to help more people.”

“The one at the bar?”

“Yeah, him.”

A pause, then: “I can help you find him.”

It’s difficult to discern anything with that mask obscuring the Mandalorian’s face. But he looks at you, steadfast and unwavering. The cord slips free from around you and you watch as he quickly wraps it back up.

“I’m sure that would be a fun story for later, but you’re after me for a bounty.”

“I already have a tracker on his bike, got a fob for him too. I can help you.”

Again, that feeling comes back and it keeps you were you stand. “Why? Why would you help me?”

“It’s personal, but…” His voice cracks on that last word, a depth there that he struggles to keep controlled. “I have no quarrel with the Jedi. And if you’re after this guy, he must be worse than I was told.”

“… he’s my lead to something worse. Reckon you could help me with that?”

The Mandalorian nods, easing up his stance and you ease yours.

“What’s the ‘much worse’?”

“You ever dealt with a gang of mercenaries?”

He nods.

“They’re something like that.”

The Mandalorian looks at you for a time. Part of you thinks that he has malfunctioned, or something, suddenly standing very still. Then, with a quick nod, he’s animated again and moving towards you.

“We’ll grab a ride from the port, and you can tell me about them on the way.”

~

The ride out of town happens so quickly. One moment, you’re surrounded by people and buildings, encompassed in the accompanying waves of noise, and then it’s gone. Riding alongside the Mandalorian on a speeder, you stare at the fields that seem stretch on forever. The rivers and lakes that pop up are straight out of the picture books you had as a child, picturesque and shimmering. It’s regrettable that you don’t get to spend time in such places, to relax where the sun is warm, not scorching, and the air is cool and inviting.

One day, you will. Hopefully.

“Up ahead,” the Mandalorian shouts, pointing to a dense forest in the distance. You nod and let him drift forward. Despite your agreement, you still don’t trust this bounty hunter, not when you know he’s still got the puck on you.

You leave the speeders near the edge of the forest, dragging a few fallen branches over them. The fob at the Mandalorian’s hip beeps faster now.

“This way.” He says before stalking off. There’s a sizable distance between you two, still not taking any chances with surprise attacks. You take the opportunity of the lack of conversation to breathe. To focus. To feel the Force around you like a security blanket, finding comfort in the living things around you. There is no pushing or pull right now, no guidance even when you seek it out. You are not sure if this is where you need to be, but you are here and there are people who need to be stopped so you rationalize that you cannot be far from where you need to be.

The Mandalorian is a strange, but not unwelcome, addition.

~

_The first time you had ever killed someone, it was a mess of adrenaline and panic. Before you had known what you were doing, the man was several metres away from you, his head twisted too far and his limbs akimbo._

_You had cried, then puked, then cried some more. For years after, you had avoided killing anyone, still haunted by that one time. Most situations could be talked out of, others you just ran away from. But then there was that child on Naboo._

_It’s hard to recall why you had gone there, how you even got to such a planet. But you remember the kid. Small, scruffy, barely big enough to hold themselves let alone a weapon. And then there were the Stormtroopers. Their guns aimed unwavering, point-blank range, and the kid just standing there against the wall._

_You had fired first, right into one of the trooper’s necks. They all turned at once and you had fired another two shots. The last trooper got uncharacteristically lucky and shot your arm before you hit him. Then it was just you and the kid, staring at each other like lost souls. You had wanted to ask the kid’s name, if they had family, where home was. But the thunderous footsteps came, like a nightmare escaping your dreams, and the kid was gone._

_Those Stormtroopers lived, despite the rage boiling beneath your skin, despite the ache in your chest as grief found its way back into your mind. But you knew they would kill you, taking on a whole squadron marching down the road was suicide. You were a survivor and you were not letting them take more than they already had from you._

_From then on, you had taken your training more seriously. Whoever would teach you, wherever you could find them, you took on tutors, trainers and crewmates until you learned all you could. None of them were Jedi, all you had of that was your memories of early lessons and scraps of archives. A puzzle with most of the pieces missing that you filled with whatever you could find._

_The next time you had killed someone, your hands did not shake, you did not cry, you did not die. And you wouldn’t for years after._

~

The edge of the camp is littered with trip-mines. The camp itself is not terribly big, just a few campfires set around a sizable tent. There’s a truck, a few barrels of cargo and the smuggler’s speeder. It takes a long while for you and the Mandalorian to sneak close enough to get any information.

Crouched behind a log, the Mandalorian presses a few buttons on his wrist panel. “I count eight of them. Two on the other side of that tent, the rest are inside.”

“Troopers?”

“…Yeah.”

“Wonderful.”

“How do you want to do this?”

You pause for a moment, surprised that he is letting you take charge. But he’s just watching you and you realize that he’s waiting for an answer.

“You think you can get the two troopers at the back?” The Mandalorian nods. “I’ll head inside and deal with the others.”

A hand on your arm is as surprising as it is halting. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“You’re gonna go in there and take on six troopers?”

“Five troopers, and our smuggler. And I won’t be taking them on.”

“You got some sort of Jedi… trick?”

“Something like that. I’ll shout if I need backup. Just be ready.”

You can tell he doesn’t like this idea, but he hasn’t got much of a choice when you start sneaking towards the door. There’s voices, speaking Basic, and none of them sound happy. Why do they never sound happy?

They’re certainly not happy when you step inside.

At once, they all turn, guns drawn, to you. Instinctively, your hands go up. But no shots are fired, and you mentally check off another ‘ _too-lucky-for-your-own-damn-good_ ’ mark and one day you’ll remember whose voice it is that says it every time you think it.

“Afternoon, fellas. All’s well in here?”

Two troopers twist to look at each other and another cocks their head to the side. The smuggler looks about ready to run or throw up, or both. Only the trooper closest to him seems to realize what’s going on and points his gun at your face.

“Who are you and what’re you doing here?”

“Well…”

In all honesty, you don’t really enjoy doing this. Not only is it difficult, but it goes against your own desperate need for freedom. But sometimes you need to do bad things before they become worse.

“You are all going to drop your weapons and handcuff yourselves and get into that truck parked outside. You’re going to keep quiet and not move unless instructed.” Your voice is steady and clear as you will enough conviction into your words. Like magic, the six of them do as you’ve instructed quickly and efficiently.

The Mandalorian bursts just as the troopers and smuggler leave out the front exit.

Blaster in hand, he looks from the troopers’ backs to you. “What’s going on?”

“Co-operation,” you say, trying to hide the bitterness in your tone. A bad thing for a better outcome, you remind yourself. “They’re going to ride in the truck, should fetch you some extra credits.”

“And the smuggler?”

“Him too.”

The only indication that the Mandalorian is staring at you is the fact that his visor never changes its direction at you. Not even when he tilts his head.

“Where are the other two?”

“Outside.” That’s all you get before he stalks outside after the group. You take a moment to look over some of the files with the cargo manifest, and a few names stick out. They stick in your brain once you read them over a few times and then you follow after the Mandalorian.

Already, the troopers and smuggler are in the truck, with the Mandalorian in the front seat. The whole thing creaks as you climb in, sceptical about the ride out of the forest. The engine groans to life. The Mandalorian says nothing as the truck pushes forward, bouncing around the uneven terrain.

“Who’s riding the speeders back?” You ask, buckling yourself in.

“Some droids will pick them up if we don’t return them.”

“I didn’t know they did that. I guess if Bounty Hunter droids go after living beings, then a speeder should be no problem.”

The Mandalorian is silent for a long while, nothing but the engine and tires ruining the peaceful scenery, before he speaks. “I’m turning the smuggler in, and the troopers before they’re shot like pests.”

There’s a bantha in the room. It’s easy to remain calm, heart barely picking up pace, but you are curious. He hadn’t taken you before, had stopped himself. But now what?

“How many credits would you be missing out on?” He doesn’t answer. “I’ll only be offended if it’s less than one hundred.”

“Two.” He says, quietly.

“Only two hundred? Those cheap sons of-”

“Thousand.”

“…Come again?”

“They want two thousand for you. Eight hundred for the smuggler.”

“That’s- um… that’s a sizable amount of pay.”

“Mhm. I’m not taking it.”

“And why not?”

“I promised to help you. And I’ve got no quarrel with the Jedi.”

You look at him for a long moment, trying to discern anything from the unmoving beskar. “Are you sure you’re a bounty hunter?”

“What?”

“Well, firstly, you’re giving up two thousand credits for… impartiality? Disinterest? I’m still not even sure why you offered to help. And second, our peoples aren’t exactly friends.”

“What?”

“Jedi and Mandalorians? There were wars and battles centuries ago and the animosity has never really healed.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why hasn’t the animosity healed?”

“No. Why was there fighting in the first place?”

You sigh. The stories are faint and faded in your memory. It’s easier to remember holding the old tome, with foxed edges and little rips on some of the pages, as you poured your attention onto every word. “I might be generalizing it but… I think it was because we didn’t understand each other. Two very different kinds of people: the peacekeeping, Force wielding Jedi, and the warrior centric Mandalorians who didn’t know what the Force was. And I guess no one thought to talk it out. There was something about the Jedi not wanting the Mandalorian ideals of fighting to reach the rest of the universe and the Mandalorians didn’t trust the Jedi’s powers. The Jedi Order held ideals that conflicted with the Mandalorians’, and there’s never really been a peaceful connection made. So… animosity and distrust were left to fester.”

All you get as a response is a gentle ‘huh’, and then the conversation stops. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, not once on the long ride back do you feel the need to fill the silence. You guess that the Mandalorian feels the same.

It takes a lot long to arrive at the port in the truck, but you were grateful for the time to think; to plan. The names burned like headlights in your mind as you tried to fit them in with the rest of the information you keep stored in there. You had tried to write it down, but with all your running and hiding, it became too much to carry. As the gears of your brain begin to tick over, you cast a sidelong glance at your unlikely companion. Although he’s taciturn, you can tell he’s pragmatic. It is unlikely that you’ll have to trick him in any form, not when a plan forms so neatly before you.

The Mandalorian begins hauling the captives out of the truck. All of them remain passive, almost dazed, and they earn your small group several wary glances. The Empire is gone, but the scars are still fresh; too new to really begin closing.

You keep close to the group, in case the trick wears off, and the Mandalorian leads you to a old relic of a ship.

“I didn’t know they still made these,” you murmur, taking in the side engines and the front windshield. It looks out of place with all the newer, sleeker ships. The ramp drops at the back and you catch a glimpse of the interior. It’s dark, narrow, and perfect for one person. “How’re they all going to fit?”

Instead of speaking, the Mandalorian lines one trooper up in a sort of alcove before hitting a button. The gas comes out quickly and you watch as the trooper is frozen in carbonite. None of the others flinch as, one by one, they’re treated to the same fate as the first trooper. It’s over in a matter of moments and the Mandalorian strides down the ramp towards you.

There’s nothing threatening in his gait nor in what you sense from him. But you still take a step back. He’s a large being, who seems incapable of strolling, and being approached by a Mandalorian like this would make anyone uncomfortable.

“Thank you.” He says with a nod.

“No, thank you. I don’t think I would’ve gotten what I needed so efficiently without you.”

“Did you get all you needed?”

“Mhm, thanks.” The Mandalorian nods again, pauses, and then turns to leave. “You sure you don’t want those credits?”

He looks back at you, standing very still as he does so.

“I mean,” you carry on, trying to sound convincing. “That’s a lot of credits and it seems foolish to pass them up.”

“…You want me to capture you?”

“Well, no. And I don’t think it will be a quick and easy fight if you were to try.” He keeps staring at you. “But…what if I went willingly?”

Another pause. “What?”

“It just so happens that one of the people I need to talk to has been captured by the Guild. The papers confirmed that a friend of those Stormtroopers is detained after getting caught.”

“You want to get arrested with him?”

“Or close enough to the guild to find out where he’s been sent to.”

“I don’t think you get how handing over bounties works.”

“I do so. Look, all you have to do is bring me in, get your credits and go do whatever you need to do. I’ll stay there, have a talk with whoever’s in charge, and then I’ll be on my way too. Easy as that.”

“You’re going to use that Jedi trick again?”

You wince. “Maybe? Hopefully not. But I have gotten myself out of worse situations before, so I’m not worried.”

He hasn’t moved his visor from your face even once during the whole conversation. “Why?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It just feels like I should.”

“Is… is that a Jedi thing?”

“Maybe? So, what do you think? You get all your credits and I get my man?”

The crowd around you never ceases moving, the sound never lulls as it swarms through every crack and crevice, the heat is a constant weight against you. But all you can focus on is the being before you, and the strange push and pull that exists between. That feeling comes back and you’re smiling before he even answers with a quiet sigh.

The Mandalorian feels wary but his voice is sure when he says, “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go folks, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> More to come, but feel free to drop your thoughts and queries down below in the meantime. 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


	2. Less dry next time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely meeting of an unlikely pair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoopdie-doo, chapter two!  
> I have no sense of time for this fic so if you get a little lost, time wise, same here buddy. 
> 
> There may be grammatical errors, consistency is key x
> 
> Enjoy :)

_There’s an orbak that wanders alone._

_It visits settlements and nomad camps. Over deserts or rolling hills, between towering skyscrapers and straw huts, the orbak walks without rhyme or reason._

_The friends the orbak makes are many, an eclectic group that spans the galaxy; connected by a singular connection. When it visits places that are joyous, the orbak brings calm and insight. When the places are lost and fearful, the orbak is a steady guide or a warm light. Where there is pain, it brings patience and perspective._

_It once had a herd, many centuries ago. But although they were family, the orbak was different. It swayed from the wind; from the natural guides the others would heed. Something else guided the orbak. Even it’s love, the light of the orbak’s fledgling life, could not sway it to stay._

_The grief came, then the pain, and the orbak hurt more than itself._

_So, the orbak fled, letting the Something Else form a path among the stars. The orbak wandered where it felt right, it balanced and befriended beings wherever it roamed. But the connections never tightened too much, never did the orbak linger too long._

_It belonged to the Something Else. And to the Something else it would wander._

_“Why didn’t the orbak stay with its family?” The voice_ sounds _small, and the hands that press onto the pages certainly are. The being next to you, an older Cerean, with white hair and yellow eyes, is so much bigger._

_“Because it was destined elsewhere.”_

_“But wasn’t it sad to leave the one it loved?”_

_“I’m sure it was.”_

_“I don’t get it.”_

_“That’s alright, young one. It is a lesson you will understand when you are older. For now, let it be a nice story.”_

_~_

Your ears have yet to stop ringing. It doesn’t help that the freighter you’ve wedged yourself into hiding in is rumbling and rattling like a tumble-dryer. But it hasn’t been blown up by Imperial hunters, so you take the ringing as a fun bonus.

The overalls aren’t, however. They sit oddly at your hips and it grates along the top of your rips. But it was the only thing lying around, aside from a sack that definitely needs a clean. Your other clothes had been left on Nevarro in exchange for a prisoner’s uniform. That thing, caked in dust and dirt, was something you had eagerly gotten rid of. If there was time, you would’ve set it on fire. Along with that whole mining operation.

When the ship eventually lands, you unfold yourself out of your little hiding spot and go immediately to the door. You flinch at the loud hiss as it opens a small ramp slides out towards the docking bay. A couple of droids are already there, a few pit droids and an R2 astromech, and you give them a little wave as you pass by. One of them waves a wrench while looking confused.

You make for the market before the ship even powers down, keen to be gone before the pilot gets out. There’s no telling what planet you’re on, no specific species seem to dominate the population, no large signs with blinking lights and obnoxious colours. But it is significantly less dry than the last planet, so you don’t mind. Not that it matters, you’re not planning to stay long enough to figure it out.

If you’ve seen one marketplace, you’ve essentially seen them all. It’s crowded, loud, and teeming with oddities, rip-offs, bargains and arguments. It’s the best place to be. Especially when you manage to get a few new items of clothing for cheap and a pair of sturdy boots thrown in, since you’re ‘ _just the sweetest thing to come through here in so long_ ’. There’s a handful of ration-packs shoved into your bag along with a canteen of water, enough to last a few weeks of travel. Hopefully. But you are rather peckish, now that your stomach isn’t being crushed by your ribs.

There’s no telling why you choose this particular bar. There are several more along the main drag, serving intriguing looking food and drink. But this one is quiet, the music is just a low hum in the background, and no one looks up at you when you enter.

You pick a table near the back out of habit. The thought of sitting down with a cold drink and warm food makes your knees a little weak. But that thought is thoroughly smacked from your mind when you turn to look at the table to your left.

The little creature is propped up on a box on a chair, with it’s little claws scratching at the table. Those big, green ears knock the cups each time it moves its head. Then those wide, brown eyes are on you and there’s an immediate connection between you. It’s scary, but scary like meeting a relative for the first time since you were a baby. Both of your thoughts are guarded, so there’s no telling who this child is.

You stare at the small creature for a long while, caught between the past and present. There’s no way it could be, and you feel stupid for even entertaining the idea, but…

“Ah… b-baby Master Yoda?”

It looks at you, but not in recognition, before cooing. It makes a little snort noise, mixed with a kind of purring, and something in your head tells you that, _no, this is not Grand Master Yoda you moron._

Before you can decide whether or not to leave the tiny being to its own devices, heavy footsteps come to a stop just behind you. Your hand sneaks down to the blaster on your hip.

“I hope you don’t intend to shoot me in front of the kid.”

It has been close to a hundred days since you last heard that modulated voice. A hundred days since you were left with the Guild Master who was more than happy to share a drink with you and talk business. But you know that energy, and suddenly your nerves ease up as a grin curls on your mouth.

“And make you look uncool in front of your… pet? Son?”

You turn to see the Mandalorian behind you, in shiny new armour. “He’s a foundling.”

“I see,” you say with no understanding, but you don’t bother to ask. “You got a refurb? Looks good.”

“I was gifted new armour. I’m not a ship.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You look back to the little creature who looks between the two of you. That might be a smile on his tiny face or baring of teeth. “Is he a new addition? Did you adopt him recently?”

“No, he was on the ship when I found you. He slept the whole time.”

“Seriously? You really shouldn’t be leaving something so small on its own, bigger prey might come and snatch it.”

“I’ve been told.”

“Oh yeah? His mother tell you off?” 

“What happened to you?”

Part of you wants to bristle at him ignoring your comment, but you realize that he’s probably not the type to use words superfluously; taciturn as he is.

“When you left me with Karga?” He nods and the sun glints of his helmet like a little beacon. You look at him and shrug. “He bought me a drink, we got talking, more drinking. Managed to convince him that turning me in was a waste of time and opportunity. Then I was on the next ship to a mining town somewhere in the outer rim.”

“And the clothes?”

“Borrowed them from a cargo ship that dropped me off here.”

You think that you aren’t meant to hear him hum, quiet as it is. “Did you use your Jedi trick to convince Karga?”

“Nope, just some good old fashion charm… aaand a promise of a favour.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I also got him to stop calling me the Havoc, which is nice.”

“What would you rather be called?”

You think for a moment, tossing up between serious and humorous. “I don’t know… beautiful? Amazing? Goddess Eternal would be cool.”

The Mandalorian huffs a laugh, this one you can’t miss.

“You can just call me by my name, though.”

“Which is?”

You tell him, and he repeats it back gently enough that you know you weren’t supposed to hear it.

“And you? Calling you ‘Mandalorian’ sounds too formal for either of us.”

“Mando. Everyone else does.”

“Mando? And what about the little guy?”

The creature in question coos as it looks up at you, those big ears catching and folding against the cups.

“Kid. I don’t know his actual name.”

“Just Kid?” Mando nods. “I’ve heard worse. Nice to meet you, Kid.”

You hold out your hand and shake the little guy’s. It’s so small in your own and something in your chest melts at the sight.

“I take it he doesn’t have your ears. Wouldn’t fit in the helmet, I reckon.”

“It’s a snug fit.” Mando says, light-hearted, and you can’t help but chuckle. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m in transit.”

“Transit?”

“I’m one of those lost souls that travels the road of existence, forever searching.” The Mandalorian shakes his head at you. “No, actually I managed to get a lucky escape, I’m just here to resupply before hopping off-world again. Might try someplace that’s not ridiculously dry, this time. You?”

“Transit.”

“Ahah.”

“I’ve been tasked to return the child to his people… People like you.”

There are those moments when the world feels very small, like all the weight of existence finds a home right on your shoulders. Where the past encroaches on the present like water seeping into cloth. It is unpleasant, terrifying and happening so suddenly that you can’t hold back your pang of anxiety.

“I-I don’t… he can’t-”

There’s a heavy, warm hand on your shoulder and it takes you far too long to realize that Mando is saying something to you.

“…not expecting you to-to do anything.”

“I’m barely a Jedi.” You whisper it, out of breath and still slightly shaking. Mando’s grip on your shoulder tightens just a fraction. “I've never had a padawan... I don't- I was only trained for a few months.”

“You learned most of it on your own?”

“Where I could, here and there.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The grip on your arm eases up and maybe he might turn away. But his visor stays locked on your face. “I guess that explains your poor handling of that speeder.”

The next four things happen simultaneously:

  * your eyes widen in shock
  * an offended laugh punches its way from your chest
  * the Mandalorian raises his hands in mock-surrender
  * he chuckles so low that your face can’t help but heat up



“My handling?” You say with hands on your hips and fighting off a smile. “I’ll have you know that I am an amazing rider. I could whip your backside in a race any day, Mando.”

“I’m sure you could.”

The streets start filling up again, midday coming sooner than you had expected, and that cold tingle settles on the back of your neck. The child drops the piece of metal he’s holding and reaches up for the Mandalorian. You’re suddenly not hungry anymore.

“What is it?” He says, noticing how still you’ve suddenly become. You shake yourself out of that feeling.

“Nothing,” you reply with a wide smile. “But I really should get going. Might miss my ship.”

The Mandalorian tilts his head slightly and you _know_ he sees right through you. “Right. We should get moving too. Another bounty.”

“I see. Well, Mando, if we ever meet up again, I’m challenging you to a speeder race.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. Gotta knock you down a few pegs so your head won’t get to big for your helmet.”

“Right. It’s a good thing you don’t wear one.”

You laugh at that, light and easy. “Make sure you bring the kid, so he can see how to properly handle a speeder. You’ll learn more from me, trust me kid.” Mando picks the child up who looks pleased to be part of the conversation. He babbles at you.

“He said that’s unlikely.”

You glare at Mando; no heat, just humour. “Sure, he did. You two take care, I’m certain the galaxy isn’t so large that we won’t miss a chance to meet again.”

You give them both a smile, readjust your grip on your pack, and head towards the exit. You hear the Mandalorian’s voice over the din of the room, say: “Of course. Not when you _have_ to beat me in a race.”

“Exactly! See you then, Mando.” You call over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of him waving back. “Bub-bye baby Yoda!”

You miss it when Mando turns to look at the child, muttering a very confused, “baby who?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm funny... sometimes 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


	3. Ready to race.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A race is a good distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned on having this chapter be a lot longer. But then it kind of got away from me and I just felt that it would be better to split it up, otherwise it would be such a beast of a chapter. So you get two (maybe three tbd) for the price of one. And you get it on time!  
> Also, chapter count went up. It'll probably go up again later on at this rate. 
> 
> There are most likely grammatical errors, still keeping that consistency.  
> TW: there are mentions of live beings as 'cargo'. 
> 
> Ejnoy :)

Part one: red

“You can’t come in here.”

It shouldn’t be so annoying, it’s not like this hasn’t happened before, but the smug look on this guy’s face is just _so damn_ annoying. His arms are folded over his tactical vest and it’s painstakingly obvious how uncomfortable it is. But he has to commit to the bit. And you know he’s supposed to be intimidating, hence the unnecessary display of weapons and gear, but you can’t help the irritation.

“Racers only,” he says, tilting his chin up in that ‘I’ve got power and I’m going to use it’ kind of way.

You roll your eyes and pull out the red card from your chest pocket. “Good thing I’m a racer, huh? Now, you going to let me in or what?”

He almost tells you no. Almost. But the rules are rules and he’s not the big man in charge. That would be the local Warlord. Well, local to this corner of Mos Espa. The guard takes one step back, like it’s the hardest thing to do, and lets you pass.

You slip past him and straight into the crowd. A spare junk lot stands before you, swarming with people and modified speeders. There seems to be a rough kind of order, different speeders are surrounded by boxes of gear and their respective riders and mechanics. Several pairs of eyes follow you, and the energy is far more negative than positive. It’s hard not to hate this place. Especially with the heat, the humidity and the unrelenting amount of sand.

You find your speeder off to one side, tucked into a corner between two outcropped doorways. There are several footprints leading to the few boxes of tools you’d managed to nab, but none of the locks are scuffed and your speeder appears to be in one piece. When you turn the engine on, relishing in the sudden burst of power beneath your hands, it sounds fine. You just hope it lasts the race, dreading the idea that you’ll have to return it broken.

“Still could use more work,” you mutter, reaching for a screwdriver and a torch. This is what you’re good at, finding a machine and learning how it ticks. It’s how you survived on your own, for as long as you have. There has always been work for mechanics, and some are fine with feeding you rather than paying you. The best ones do both.

It’s like slipping into a pool, how easy it is to sink back into the motions of tuning and cleaning an engine, of adjusting the thrusters so they’re firing optimally, of tweaking the sticky throttle. You know, deep in your bones, that if you weren’t being hunted solely for being what you are, you would be this. You’d be skipping across the galaxy, fixing ships and machines as you came across them, maybe even joining a crew to be their mechanic. One day. Surely.

Some time passes, and different people come by to see what you’re doing, what your possible weaknesses could be. One man lingers a while longer, a human like you, and his eyes barely notice your speeder.

“You see something you like?” You ask, wiping some grease off your hands. The tone is hard, uncompromising, and he knows you aren’t going to be intimidated by his quiet.

He glares at you, with something like a snarl, and stalks off. You almost miss the green insignia on his belt. Something in your gut clenches and suddenly, all of those months chasing and investigating spiral into this moment. There’s a pit droid a few metres from you, unassigned, and you throw a bolt towards it. The droid picks in up in a hurry and wanders over.

“You mind watching this speeder for me? Make sure no one touches it or my stuff?” There are rules about interfering with other racers and their rides, but there conveniently aren’t enough guards around to enforce them. The droid beeps an affirmative at you and stands at the front of your speeder, bolt in hand. “Thanks pal.”

You follow the stranger, brushing past other folks and ducking into doorways when he remembers to check his six. He’s far too conspicuous for this. Checking over his shoulder several times when he does remember to, his right hand always hovers at his blaster, and the fact that he is a hulking mass of a man that stands a head above the rest. You would’ve called it unprofessional, ignorant, down-right lazy stupidity. But you’re pretty sure you know who’s in charge and, going on the assumption that you’re correct, it’s safer to say that they don’t _need_ to be subtle.

Eventually, the stranger leads you all the way to the shipyard. Ships of all sizes, some for space travel and some for planetary exploration, they all congregate here before eventually leaving. It’s not really a port, more of a place folk tend to leave things: ships, cargo, scrap, rubbish.

The stranger wanders over to someone else, a male Rodian, and takes the tablet that’s offered. After a moment, the two nod and then wander off to the nearby cantina while you continue to stand at the edge of the shipyard. Going after them is risky, and the first guy already knows your face. You’re about to wander over, entertaining the possibility of snagging some sort of disguise or crawling in, when something catches your attention.

It’s difficult to keep the smile from your face.

~

_It wasn’t your idea to land here. If you were granted any input, you would have aimed for an inner rim planet, something different to throw them off._

_But you’re a stowaway and stowaways stay quiet, unseen and thankful for a free ride._

_This planet is swampy, humid, and crawling with creatures you’ve never seen before. You stick closer to the port, it’s the only place for miles and likely the only place to find some sort of job, and food, and protection from the things that croak and growl in the surrounding wild. There aren’t many credits left, and much of what you managed to save is spent on different clothes and bacta gel._

_The burns from the blaster fire still sting, even after days spent hiding in a cargo hold. The bacta eases most of the pain, though you’re loathe to use so much of it. But they had gotten way too close this time. And you had neglected your usual training for time spent in that mechanic’s shop, enjoying the false sense of freedom._

_A kind, elderly woman lets you stay with her for the night. It’s not much, just a blanket on some empty grain sacks in the backroom of her shack. You give her half of the rest of your credits, despite her protests._

_It’s been too long since you’ve slept lying down. Just being able to stretch out your legs makes you giddy with the idea of being able to sleep like this. After days of exhaustion and unrelenting anxiety, sleep comes relatively easy. Sometimes the galaxy gives people a break._

_But this sweet respite does not last long._

_Before the suns are past the horizon, a ship docks in the port. The engines are loud, and you feel the whole shack rattle around you. The elderly woman in the next room barely rouses from her sleep, while you lay wide away._

_That Feeling is back, prickling along your skin and raising gooesbumps despite the heat and humidity. The energy from that ship reaches out towards you. The first is cold, ancient, and it makes your skin crawl. You look to the window and consider making a hasty escape. That is until the other energy, this one stronger, slightly shaky, but significantly warm, reaches out to you. It waits. This energy is so_ familiar _, and it takes you a moment to realize that-_

_You’re out of the house in seconds._

_The elderly woman doesn’t wake when you clamber past her, to the front door. The Feeling is there, holding onto your wrists, pushing against your back, towards this energy that is familiar, similar. It feels like home._

_You still don’t have a name for this Feeling. You will soon, though. But in this moment, when the galaxy suddenly seems small enough to handle, and you meet such people that make the expansive unknown exciting, you feel overwhelming gratitude for it. It has brought you safety, it has brought you guidance, it has brought you friends and family._

_It will bring you home._

~

He doesn’t notice you at first, which you’re thankful for, because you’re certainly smiling like an idiot. There are folks all over the galaxy that you know, some you’ve met a few times, and each time you’ve been glad to see them again. This time is no exception.

Standing at the bottom of the ramp, unloading cargo from the Razor Crest, is Mando.

“Need a hand?” You call out, bouncing on your feet with your hands behind your back.

You don’t flinch when Mando spins around, blaster in hand, in a single heartbeat. He puts his weapon away at the sight of your smile and his shoulders drop.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, surprised and, maybe, possibly, pleased?

“Hi to you too. I’m-.”

You stop mid-sentence as a woman strolls down from the ship. She’s big, big as in brawny, and she has one of those faces that makes you both enamoured and intimidated. There’s no way you miss the marking on her arm. Or the weapons on her belt.

“Making friends, Mando?” She asks, dropping of a crate before resting a foot on it, her elbow coming around to lean on her knee. This lady is, in the words of your previous employer, a ‘bad-ass bitch’. You don’t think she’ll enjoy such a sentiment, so you keep it to yourself.

“Oh, we’re friends?” You point the joke to the Mandalorian before smiling at the woman. You tell her your name and reach out to shake her hand.

“Cara Dune,” she replies, giving you a firm handshake. “He keeps making friends wherever he goes. What business are you in?”

“Well, while I’m here, I’m a racer.”

“A racer? Where’s your ride?”

“With everyone else’s. Rules state that every speeder has to remain in the designated lot so they can be monitored for tampering and modifications that go against regulation. I was just… taking a break.”

Cara nods, not fully buying it but shrugs it off. “You must be the one he’s wanting to go against in the race then.”

You give Cara a confused look, then Mando, who doesn’t look up from the box in his hands.

“What do you mean?”

“When I asked Mando here to help me with this job, he mentioned something about owing someone a speeder race. I’m guessing that’s you.”

“You know I was kidding about the race, right?” You shoot a grin at Mando, catching his visor aimed at you, before looking back to Cara. “But that’s what you’re here for, right? The race? Or is there some sort of weapons exposition that I was unaware of?”

Cara smirks with a huffed, “I wish.”

“We’re not here for the race, exactly.” Mando’s voice hasn’t changed, still low and raspy, like he’s just woken up. It’s pleasant.

“No? Then maybe it’s about the large shipment of cargo coming in around the time this race starts?”

In a heartbeat, the mood changes. Both are tense, looking directly at you, and you have no doubt that these two would be crazy lethal in a fight.

“What do you know about the cargo?” Mando asks, quietly. He takes one step towards you, like you’re the one who’s tense and about to bolt. Cara’s eyes are hard, and her mouth is a thin line, but she doesn’t make a single movement.

You keep your voice down and your face neutral despite being surrounded by such charged energy. “I know that I’m not here for the prize money, just the chance to get close to the guy running this race… And I know the population of Mos Espa is going to go up by thirty.”

“Thirty?” Cara says. There is no doubt that she is _pissed off_. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Although half of them are going off-world by the time some of the racers have packed up and left.”

“They’re in on it too,” Mando says with a sigh.

“Not all the racers, just a handful. Easy to spot. There are some who actually want the prize money.”

“And then there’s you.”

“Then there’s me. Exactly, Mando. And you two, of course.”

“Three, actually.” You sight follows to where Mando points up to the Crest, to where the little green kid is standing.

“Hey little fella,” you say, stepping around Cara and crouching at the edge of the ramp. “It’s been a while, huh? You remember me?”

The kid tilts his head at you for a moment, his big ears twitch a little, and then he’s waddling towards you. Instinctively, your hands reach out for him and, only when his little hands reach up for you, do you pick him up.

“Hey kid, look at you. You’ve barely even changed.”

The two fighters watch as you bounce the child in your arms, grinning and asking questions that you know he wont answer. The child smiles, comfortable in the similar energy you don’t bother to hide. In all your years, you’ve spent little time with children, always in questionable situations where kids just shouldn’t be. But those rare times that you have been able to hang out with kids? It’s as wonderful as it is terrifying.

“You going to join me in the race, little guy? Be my lucky charm?”

“No,” Mando answers, suddenly beside you. “That’s way too dangerous.”

“I was kidding. Besides, it would be against the rules and they’re being damn picky about who the enforce these rules on.”

“What do you know about the guy in charge?” Cara asks, giving you a strange look.

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you’ve swallowed lead. It was once, a few days ago, when the local War Lord came wandering around. Another human, somewhat older than you with a flattering helping of grey hairs and a few charming lines on his face. It was easy to think he was handsome; a sleek kind of muscular build, neatly styled hair, a smile that slid _too_ easily across his face.

You had been tinkering with your speeder, not really doing much, just keeping an eye on the people around you. You had been told about the incoming cargo, about the plan of using the race as a distraction. But there was nothing to show for it yet. And, with a week out from the race starting, you had been getting a little antsy.

Then Rafe Nol strolled in.

Flanked by only two armed guards, the War Lord strolled around the lot in such a casual manner. He smiled at some racers and nodded to a few others. When he had gotten round to you, it was difficult to keep the grimace from off your face. His dark eyes had looked you up and down before that smile slid across his face. You simply nodded and went back to your work. Only when Nol was out of sight did you feel like you could breathe again.

Mando and Cara are still looking at you when you come out of that memory. There’s an obvious frown on your face and even the child in your arms squirms uncomfortably.

“That bad, huh?”

You look at Cara with a weak smile, trying for composed but most likely failing, if her own frown is any indication. Mando is still beside you, his gaze unrelenting. You almost laugh at her question.

“Worse. I’m afraid I only got the brief greeting with Rafe Nol. But…”

You pause and Mando asks, “What is it?”

“He didn’t… _feel_ right.”

“What do you mean, feel?” Cara’s eyes go hard, observing.

“I’m, ah, Force sensitive. Like, I can kind of feel other people’s energy.” She nods at you slowly. “And the guy in charge feels like a bad guy.”

“We need to get that cargo away from him, get them back to their families.”

Beside you, Mando sighs as he glances around the “But in order to do that, we need to get close to him without being noticed. And we just need a plan.”

“He’s going to be at the race,” you say, readjusting your grip on the child. “Sort of like an alibi and a distraction.”

“The cargo will be moved probably when the racers are,” Cara adds.

“And the rest will be moved once the racers are back and packing up.”

Mando says your name, something about it feels gentle, like he’s trying not to scare you. “We’re going to try save them on your own?”

You feel a little foolish, huffing out a small laugh. “Ah, yeah? Maybe? I mean, I was planning on making a plan when I got here but I didn’t bet on some of the racers being involved.”

Cara’s tone is uneasy when she asks, “Think they’ve got the race rigged?”

You nod, having seen some folks with the green insignia wandering out towards the track late at night. “No doubt. Try take out some of the extra riders, create a bigger distraction. They’re giving prize money to the top five, right from Nol himself.”

“Do you know which racers are his top five?”

“Yeah, I can point them out. There’re also two guys in that cantina over there, both of them have Nol’s mark. A human and a Rodian.”

“I’ll go have a look,” Cara says. She gives you a confidant smile before turning heel and striding away. Then it’s just you, a Mandalorian, and a green, wrinkly baby.

“You called him Yoda, last time.”

Mando is already staring down at you when you look up. The rest of the sounds around you seem to quieten, just white noise in a moment.

“Yeah… there were two like this little guy when I was young. Though a lot older, I guess. Grand Master Yoda was one of them, and he was really kind. And incredibly powerful.”

“What species was he?”

You shrug. “I’m not sure. Him and Master Yaddle were of the same species but she was younger, I think. They never spoke of their species, or their home world.”

Mando hums. “So, the Jedi are still my safest bet for the kid.”

“Yeah, I’m just not sure where you’d find a Master to train him.”

You’re both quiet for a while, watching the child when you put him on the ground and let him waddle around. It had been so long ago, and both Master Yaddle and Grand Master Yoda were such fleeting memories. But you remember the Force that came from them, how old, steady and peaceful it had been. Sometimes, you swear you can still feel it, hovering by to check on you.

“You sure you’re going to be alright in this race?” Mando asks. He’s still beside you, having yet to move. It’s hard to miss the irony, a Mandalorian and a Jedi. But you had heard a rumour of another Jedi, back when you were small, being in love with a Mandalorian. But they had chosen duty over their affection.

“I’m sure it’ll be tricky. But I’ve survived worse. And I’ll have you and your shock-trooper friend on my side, right?”

Your heart feels a little lighter when Mando nods, a quick but decisive gesture. And, as you smile at him, you think that maybe being friends with a Mandalorian isn’t all that ironic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've got a race on our hands. 
> 
> Anyone want to take a guess who reader possibly met in that swamp area? They might be making an appearance in this story, if I stick to my vague-ass plan.  
> If you have any questions, or possible suggestions, let me know. 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


	4. Ready to race.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nice when a plan comes together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have somehow managed to keep up with the update schedule, although this is a few hours late but still the correct day.   
> I'm proud of that, not gonna lie.   
> I know I've been lacking in the 'fluff and romance' aspect, but this is a slowburn fic, and I'm not kidding about the 'slow'. 
> 
> Also, not to cause an argument or anything, but I still have Cara Dune in this chapter. This part of the story does require her and I think she will be in future chapters. That being said, I'm keeping her because I like the character, I like what she represents as a strong, kick-ass lady. My opinions on the actress who played her are my own and I won't be forcing it on anyone. If you would like to discuss it, please do so politely and kindly.   
> But enough of that, here's the new chapter with a little bit of fluff and the end. 
> 
> Mistakes are still there and I'm not surprised 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Part two: set 

“You can’t come in here.”

It takes a frightful amount of effort not to sock this guy right in the face. Except this time, he’s not smug, just annoyed.

“I’m a racer,” you deadpan.

He nods to the two behind you. “They’re not.”

Mando and Cara stand quietly behind you, weapons on display and patience running thin. You look back at them and fight to keep the grin off your face.

“They’re my pit crew.”

He raises one eyebrow rather impressively. “Them?”

“Yep. Them.”

The guard gives a full-bodied sigh and takes a step back. You give him a wide smile and all you get in response is a scoff. You think you hear Cara chuckle behind you, but it’s difficult to hear over the sounds of engines and power tools.

They follow you through the crowd, more people have turned up, what with the race happening tomorrow. You try not to focus on that, the stress and anxiety would just do your head in. Instead, you glance at the different vehicles you pass by, paying extra attention to the suspected riders. Each time you pass by them, you scratch at your neck with the hand closest to them. You hear Mando hum at the first sign, so you don’t worry about them missing it.

The pit droid is still there, a little spanner in its hands. It gives you a few happy beeps at your arrival, relaying that nothing and no one came near your bike.

“Thanks bud,” you say with a grateful smile. You give it a few more bolts and it scampers off with more happy beeps.

“You let a droid work on your speeder?”

You turn to see Mando standing at the edge of your designated area, hands on his hips. Cara steps around him and begins to inspect your gear.

“No way,” you reply as you start checking on your ride. “He was just standing guard. I don’t let anyone else but me sort out my machines. Trust issues and all that.”

“Those fellas at the cantina said something about a cargo ship,” Cara says quietly, turning her back to the crowd. “Said it’ll be coming in tomorrow during the race. Got any idea of a plan?”

There’s a nut loose and you take a second to tighten it, there can be no room for error in this race. “We’ve got to stop the top five, disarm the surprises they’ve got on the tracks for the rest of us, and intercept the cargo exchange without alerting the whole damn gang.”

“Easy enough.”

“What if…” Mando takes a precautionary pause as a pair of Twi’leks stroll behind him. “What if the surprises were for the top five?”

“We redirect the detonator connection?” You ask and Mando nods. “There’s definitely a comms centre close by, somewhere at the edge of the flats. It’s gotta be close to keep up the connection. We find it, get in, and mess with the connection.”

“Then you can tell us when to set them off during the race.”

“What about the cargo?” Cara asks, concern creasing her brow. That sick feeling still sits in the pit of your gut at the thought of it. Sickness and rage.

“We’ll need to intercept the guards. Probably a small contingent to keep attention minimal.”

“We can handle that while you race. When would be the best time, do you think?”

You stop for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons, then a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “When I win. It’ll keep the big man and his boys distracted and unable to answer any distress calls in front of the crowd. Appearances and all that.”

“Sounds good. But where do we put all the people? Can’t have them out in the open while we sort out transport.”

“I can handle that if you two want to handle the comms. I have to stick around here, or they send someone after you if you’re gone too long. I can also keep an ear out for any mention of the ship. Sound good?”

The two look at each other for a moment, then glancing around at the crowd behind them. You notice a few of the extras eying up Mando, more out of fear than suspicion.

“Sure. You just stay safe. Don’t raise suspicion.” Mando says it lowly with his vizor unmoving from your face. Only when you agree does Mando finally move. Cara gives you one of those ‘I got you’ nods and leaves with him. The guard from earlier gives them a sharp look, clutching his gun tighter to his chest.

Nothing much happens for the next while as you continue fettling your speeder. After almost an hour, you give up listening out for anything, before leaving the area for some food that’s better than nutrient bars. Just as you round the corner, you’re stopped short by the sight in front of you.

A guard you saw earlier in the week is back. He’s rotund, balding, and grabbing the arm of a kid in a grip that’s uncomfortable to see. The kid is in scrappy clothes and threadbare shoes. The mop of dark hair on his head bounces as he shakes vehemently.

“What did I tell you about coming in here, huh?!”

“Let go of me, freak!” The kid yells, thrashing and clawing at the hand around his bicep. The guard’s other hand sits securely on his blaster.

“You keep pissing me off and I’ll throw you in the compactor, you kriffing little shit.”

It’s never been easy for you to keep your emotions at bay, as dangerous as that is. It never gets too far, but it does happen far too quickly for you to stop it from starting. In a second, you’re right in front of the guard, shoving him back and grabbing the kid away from him.

“Ease off,” you snap at the guard. “He’s just a kid.”

“A kid who’s getting on my fucking nerves.” The boy almost talks back but the grip you have on him tightens enough to shut him up. “Get him out of here before I do.”

“Big man, picking on a kid. Real impressive.” The guard opens his mouth to say something just as you turn to haul the kid away.

You manage to make it two blocks before he scrambles out of your grip.

“Get off me! Leave me alone!”

“I just saved your life, you little Jawa.” You stand in front of him, hands on your hips and the most unimpressed look you can manage. “Don’t I get a thank you?”

The boy huffs, straightening out his ragged clothes and it doesn’t make any difference. “I was fine, I didn’t need your help.”

“That guard was five ticks from putting a hole in you. What were you trying to achieve, shouting and carrying on like that?”

He mumbles something. The pout on his face softens the irritation in your chest, but only slightly.

“I didn’t catch that, you gotta speak up.”

“I have to be in that race.”

“What race? The one that starts tomorrow?” He nods. “You got a speeder?” He shakes his head. “You ever raced before?” Another shake. “So why in the stars were you-”

“ _I have to be._ ”

There is no way you miss the watery edge of his voice, or the red in his eyes. You know that tone. A helpless determination because there’s no way you can pick the _other option_. You crouch down in front of him and place a hand on his arm. He does flinch like you had expected, but sort of leans into the touch. It hurts a little to see.

“Why do you need to be part of this race?” Your voice is a gentle as you can make it, and it has the desired effect. The boy looks up at you like you’re a lifeline, but one he’s scared to hold onto.

“The money- my Ma is sick and so’s my little sister. And there’s some folks who help us who aren’t doing- they aren’t well. I just- I wanna help them. They’ve helped us but no one’s got anything left to give, got their own problems. I just want- want to help them.”

Your heart just breaks at that. When the boy starts crying, you don’t hesitate to pull him in for a hug. His little arms go around your neck as he sobs against you, shaking like a dying engine. It takes him a while to settle down and your shoulder is definitely soaked. His cheeks are ruddy and there’s embarrassment clear on his face.

“What’s your name?”

“… Zax.”

You tell him your name, before continuing. “You can’t go in this race.” You shake your head when he opens his mouth to argue. “No, it’s way too dangerous and you don’t even have anything to race on.”

His head drops, the shaggy mop of brown falling over his eyes.

“But I know that the prize money is a lot. So, what do you say if your people can help me, I’ll give you some of the prize money? I just need enough for supplies and a ride out of here. Do you think that could work?”

The boy nods, suddenly brightening.

“I’ll just need to talk to your Ma, and the other adults around you. Can you take me to them?”

The boy is already tugging on your arm, dragging you down the road. It’s difficult to keep track of where you’re going, but you keep a general sense of direction. The area he directs you to is a back alley with small alcoves with missing doorways, just bits of fabric in lieu.

He wasn’t kidding about the people being sick. They’re all unhealthy, frightfully skinny, and exhausted beyond belief. The small community gather in the largest room of the building, shuffling from their homes to hear about the woman wanting to help.

It takes some time to convince them. They’re wary of you, of the possibility of someone wanting to help, after so long fending for themselves. When you mention the people you need to hide, there’s anger in some of the older folks’ eyes. Disgust.

“Why do you think _you_ can win?” One of the younger men asks. He looks too scared and withered to be cocky.

“Because I can’t accept the alternative. There are people who need help and I’ve dedicated myself to helping them. I can’t stand by. Losing isn’t an option. I _have_ to win. And I’m ready to do whatever I have to. So are the other two helping me. We will save those enslaved, and we will help you too. But we need a place to hide them till transport can come, so they can get as far away from Rafe Nol as possible.”

The people keep their eyes on you, the wariness slowly replaced with determination. There are already a few heads nodding before you finally ask.

“So, will you help us?”

~

You find Cara and Mando around the corner from where your speeder and gear is. Cara’s got her arms cross while Mando leans casually against the wall, one leg cross over the other.

“Did you do it?” You ask, a little tired breath escaping you.

Mando nods. “Where did you go?”

“I, ah… I found some people who want to help. They’ve agreed to keep everyone hidden.”

“What people?” Cara asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Some folks desperate for any help.”

“What kind of help?”

“…Most of the prize money.”

“That means you have to win, you know, that right?”

You shrug, hoping for confidence, rather than desperation. There’s no way you can lose. Not now. Not with so many people’s safety as stake.

“A little boy, Jax, is going to bring some of the able-bodied folks to help move the others somewhere safe.”

“We still have to find where the traps are, now that we’ve changed the communication.” Mando says, pushing off from the wall.

“Right,” you reply, fighting off the tired fog in your head. “I could take my speeder out, there’s a plateau that overlooks the track. I can get out without getting caught.”

Cara nods, looking pleased with herself and takes a step away from you and Mando. “You two go figure out where those traps are. I’m going to look around the shipyard, see if I can’t find someone willing to chat. I’ll also feed the little guy.”

Mando nods in thanks and you both watch as Cara strides away.

“Come on,” you say, knocking Mando’s arm with your elbow. “I can tell the guards we’re off on a practice run.”

“They’ll let you?” He asks as he follows you towards your speeder.

“No chance. But I can be convincing.”

He hums.

The guards are hostile at first, weapons raised and faces grim. Before either of them opens their mouths to tell you to piss off, you smile and _tell_ them that you’re off on a test run with your mechanic. They’re very genial about the whole thing and no one bats an eye at you guiding your speeder to the edge of the flats.

Mando doesn’t mention the grimace on your face.

Once you’ve climbed onto the vehicle, you slip on a pair of gloves, goggles, and your helmet. There was no way you’d risk an injury this close to saving those people. Mando stands stock still behind the speeder as you turn it on.

“Hop on,” you call over your shoulder. There’s a soft smile on your face and it’s that and the gentle look in your eyes that spurs Mando on, not that he’d ever say so. The speeder drops a little as Mando climbs on behind you. His large hands grip around your waist as he settles, beskar digging into your back and sides. “Ready?”

“…yeah. Let’s go.”

You ease the break as you turn the throttle, focusing on the thrum of the engine. Then, as easy as a breath, the speeder races forward. You can’t help the giddy chuckle at the feeling. Maybe Mando laughs too, the vibrations rattling against your back. Or maybe it’s just the speeder that hurtles you forward, across the deserted expanse of land.

Under the night sky, everything is blue and soft. The shadows stretch out, long and rounded, like spectres in the sand who wonder where you two are going. The oncoming cliffs are gentle too, beneath moonlight. You’ve only seen an ocean once, it was cold, salty, and much louder than you had expected. This, you think as the speeder kicks up a stream of dust in your wake, is a better representation of the stories you had read about the ocean as a child. It’s quiet, the weather timid, and there’s the calm, the quietude, that had been missing.

You guide the speeder to the right, easing it towards the steadiest looking incline up the side of the cliffs you were nearing. Mando’s grip on you doesn’t waver as you drift around rocks and corners, trying not to bank too hard. It remains steady, firm, kind of like him.

There’s a nice spot at the edge of one of the cliffs, a small plateau with a view of the empty miles surrounding you. Mos Espa glows in the distance, probably the most attractive it has ever looked. When the engine is cut, the surrounding silence seems to swallow it up, and all you hear is yourself and Mando’s armour as you manoeuvre yourselves off without elbowing each other.

“Well, she’s no X-wing, but she does handle quite nicely.” You strip your gloves, helmet, and goggles, then shake your head to avoid helmet hair sticking uncomfortably. Mando follows you to the edge and sits beside you with your legs hanging off the side. There’s no dust or rubble loosening underneath, and you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“You fly?” He asks. You’re both staring out into the distance, watching the dust devils appearing and fading.

“Yep. Used to fly for the Alliance near the ass end of the war. I haven’t flown one in a long time, too long. Couldn’t get enough of just… being up there, drifting through the stars like nothing could touch you.”

“Except for enemy fire.”

“Hmm, not if you’re quick enough. Made some good friends then… lost a bunch too.”

“That’s what happens when you get involved in a war.”

“Did you? Fight, I mean.”

He’s quiet again, and you turn to watch him. He’s already looking at you. “No. Our secrecy has been our survival. The Covert didn’t involve itself.”

“You mean a clan of Mandalorians didn’t fight the Empire?”

“No…”

There’s anger twisting in your gut, seething beneath your skin. The injustice of it all, everyone you had lost, all those people who had suffered, and Mando and his kin just _didn’t get involved_. The rational part of you wants to understand, expecting a reasonable explanation. But you’ve never been the best at choosing reason over emotions.

Mando sees the anger in your eyes and flinches. “Our leader needed us to keep the foundlings safe, to train them away from our enemies.” he adds so quietly, scared of setting you off. He doesn’t want you to be upset, not here, not now. “But… that doesn’t mean I didn’t get rid of every Imperial I came across.”

“Oh.”

The anger is gone. It bleeds away as if it was never there.

“Can’t believe it’s over, some days.” Your voice is quiet, unintentionally, and the memories swirling in your head quieten with it.

“You were involved a lot with the war?”

“As much as anyone. Growing up as collateral, as a victim like everyone else, growing with that resentment and anger towards the Empire. Then I was old enough to be a hot-shot pilot, zipping around, saving folks.”

“And being a Jedi?”

You shake your head. There’s a part of you that feels uncomfortable sharing so much with someone whose face you won’t ever see, whose personality you don’t really know. But there’s something kind of freeing about it too.

“I didn’t use the Force when I was little. I kind of … killed a guy trying to steal from me, I didn’t know how to use it. Got scared and refused to use to. Just ran and hid a lot.”

“But you became one?”

“Yep. After escaping the temple when the troopers turned, I had to kind of had to train myself how to fight. Without the Force...”

“What temple?”

“What?” You look at Mando, confusion glaringly visible on your face. “The Jedi temple on Coruscant. It got taken over by the Empire. Do you not know it?”

Mando shakes his head.

“…I guess your clan didn’t really need to know about a piece of Jedi history, huh? Makes sense. Secrecy and all that. Maybe I’ll get to show you, one day.”

There’s a pause, one you’re not surprised by, before he speaks. “Who taught you how to use the Force, then? Or do you get to just be one?”

“Oh, no. There’s plenty of Force wielders who aren’t Jedi. You have to train as one, as an initiate then a padawan, where you get given a Master who teaches you until they decide that you’re ready. I was lucky to meet mine, somehow he found me out on the skug-hole of a planet I was on.”

“Where is he now?”

The anger is back, but this surge is old, and it smoulders, rather than burns. It’s been sitting in the pit of your stomach for almost two years. There’s no stopping the bitter laugh that escapes your mouth, nor the sting in your eyes.

“I wish I knew. He didn’t tell me anything except that he was going on a mission and I was on my own for the foreseeable future. Just… left.”

All Mando does is nod. But there’s something in the gesture that makes you think that he understands that feeling. Or maybe it’s your own need for empathy. Despite the anger, you shrug and take a deep breath. The smile on your face may be a little forced, but it helps to dissipate the lingering anger until you can barely notice it.

From your vantage point, you scope out the placements of the traps, looking out for tracks and disturbances in the scenery. The ones you don’t find, if there are any, will be dealt with during the race, thanks to your gifts. Mando stays beside you, taking notes when you point something out. You’re so busy looking through your scope that you miss the way he watches you, intrigued by the concentration on your face. When you turn to ask Mando if he got everything, your brain stops working.

It should surprise you that he’s already looking at you, but it’s his armour that catches you. There are stars all over him. The moonlight on his back casts him in this mesmerising glow, but the stars scattered across the front of him shift as he does. It’s beautiful.

You want to tell him, despite the questionable strength of your breath. Even your tongue feels too heavy to form the words, and your brain is too slow to catch up. He beats you to it.

“It suits you,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid to scare the sand.

“What does?”

“The starlight.”

~

_There are moments when the universe seems to shrink into something manageable, comprehensible. Like all other existence is apart from a certain moment._

_The Jedi who had found you in that swamp, and the witch at his side, there was nothing else. No enemies, no strangers, no swamp and hidden creatures that called from the unknown. Just the Jedi, the witch, and you._

_The universe no longer felt like this unending_ thing _. There was a limit to what mattered, an easy amount to swallow. And it had made you feel lighter than you have ever felt in so, so long. Your heart gave a little, beating a little bit stronger, and those walls that protected you opened just the barest bit; letting something good, finally, in._

_This is one of those moments._

~

A smile pulls slowly at your mouth, a gentle, involuntary thing. Mando watches you, watches that smile bloom like it forgot that it could.

“Yeah?”

He nods.

“Thank you. It suits you too.” Mando tilts his head and you watch as a new constellation appears above the right corner of his visor. “The stars look kind of wonderful on all that beskar. It looks like you’re wearing them.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Something about it feels comfortable, even though a part of your brain rationalizes that it shouldn’t. You can hear him breathing, deep and steady breaths that rattle through the voice-modulator.

“You… you have stars in your eyes.”

“I do?”

He nods. “It’s like they’re apart of you. Like you’re starlight too.”

There’s no way your heartbeat couldn’t not pick up at that. “Is that my new nickname? Starlight?”

“Maybe. But you also suit sunshine.”

“Sunshine, huh? I kinda like that.”

His voice is so gentle, so utterly, achingly quiet, and you almost miss is when he replies, “me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be perfectly honest, I don't actually know the reflective capabilities of beskar. But it is a made up metal and I am using creative license for the fluff. 
> 
> Let's get ready for a race, boys. 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


	5. Ready to race.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a race, guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... it's been two weeks instead of one. My bad, a whole bunch of factors come into play with that.  
> So, I won't keep you busy with a bunch of notes.  
> This is over 5000 words, so much happens in this chapter, so if something is confusing or doesn't add up, please let me know!
> 
> If there aren't any mistakes, it's unintentional. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Part three: go.

Morning comes with blazing heat, aching shoulders, and a weight on your chest. At first it was metaphorical, but as you slowly come out of sleep, you realize that it’s a more literal weight. Although your mind begins to panic, your body is still too relaxed to make any serious commitments to doing something about this weight. All you can manage is opening one eye. The nerves ache and your eyelid won’t stop twitching, but you see enough. Actually, you see a silver ball clutched between six claws on two little, green hands.

“Morning, kid,” you rasp, feeling your voice grate on your throat. The child tilts his head at you and does that smile that’s more just him opening his mouth. He makes a little purring sound at you as you let out a full-bodied sigh with your eyes screwed shut.

Even though you can clearly hear them, it takes you a minute to register the sounds of footsteps to their meaning. It isn’t until they’ve stopped next to where you lie before you realize that someone was walking about and now, they’re right beside you.

“Hey, it’s rude to stand on people.” It’s very difficult not to register that voice. When you crack an eye open, Mando is standing above you with his hands on his hips.

“It’s fine. I’m awake. What time is it?”

“About an hour till the race.”

You groan and begin to roll over. The child’s little feet press into your skin for a second before he jumps off, avoiding being thrown over as you roll onto your side, away from Mando.

“I’ll get up just before the race. It’s fine.”

He says your name and it sounds nice coming from that voice. Until he kicks your right calf. “Come one, get up. You’ll need food, and then you’ll have to help me find the right cargo ship.”

Before you’ve even responded, Mando strides away towards the door. It opens with a hiss as the ramp lowers, letting in the uncomfortable heat of Mos Espa. The child totters after him with a happy babble.

It had been so nice, sleeping on the ship, that you had been lost in the sleepy bliss. But the gravity of what your about to do settles, and you find yourself rising without complaint. After scouting for the traps, last night, Mando had scoffed at the idea of you sleeping next to your speeder. Instead, he offered you space in the Razor Crest. Before he could even think about being embarrassed from offering you just a space on the floor, you had thrown your bedroll down and yourself on it with a blissful sigh.

“You sure this is alright, me sleeping here?” You had asked, shuffling your pack beneath your head. Mando had stood above you, unmoved, with his helmet tilted to the side.

“If you’re fine with the floor.”

“Oh yeah, the floor means I get to stretch out like this. And I won’t be waking up with sand in my mouth again.”

He had left you there, shrugging at your acceptance before heading towards his own sleeping arrangements. You were too tired to pay much attention to the sounds of him shuffling. But, before you could fall asleep, you heard his voice quietly say, “no kid, you can’t sleep with her. You sleep in your own bed.”

Mando waits at the end of the ramp while you change into a pair of cargo pants, your dark blue jacket that’s seen better days, gloves, and a scarf. The kid is already in his carrier. You join them outside and immediately cringe. Now, the sun is blazing, and the wind swirls the heat around you, offering no reprieve and sand in your eyes. Perfect weather for racing.

“Can you… feel anything? With your Jedi…ness?”

“My… Jedi-ness.” You mutter, unable to help the incredulous look you give Mando before scanning the scene before you. The shipyard is packed. Not packed like a neat, organized container of similar sized things, more like if you had to pack all your worldly possessions into a single box, with smaller and malleable items wedged amongst the bulkier pieces. It’s a mess.

It doesn’t seem to bother Mando, not with how he wanders through the crowds and cargo, the kid drifting alongside him. It takes you a moment to realize that the best way to get through the throng of people is to follow directly behind Mando. Folks love getting out the way of a beskar-clad, fully grown, weapon wielding Mandalorian. It makes perfect sense.

No longer having to worry about bumping into someone means you can focus where you need to. The energy around you is live a beehive, so dense in its capacity and complex in the dozens of emotions that hum through. You take a deep breath, try to peel your own energy away so you can see above the noise.

Mando stops when he notices that you aren’t following him anymore. Instead, he watches you carefully, the way you stand at complete ease while people drift past you, not even so much as a hair or piece of clothing touches you. Your eyes are closed, and Mando takes the opportunity to look. Your face is usually so animated, so expressive, whether you’re furrowing in concentration or smiling simply from seeing him. But now… now your face is relaxed like you’re asleep. But even while sleeping, your face would twitch, and your mouth would move so you could mutter nonsense from your dreams.

This version of you is different.

Mando doesn’t know what to do with ‘different’.

Something in your chest twists when you finally feel it. A collection of energy, all slow, hazy, and underlined with undisguisable fear. Your eyes snap open to Mando staring at you from a few paces away. Then your gaze drifts to the left and you’re following that feeling before you realize. Mando is right behind you, his energy is cold and solid, unwavering despite the buzz around you both.

“What?” He asks, voice clipped. “Did you hear something.”

“Not hear, exactly. But I think it’s this way.”

The Mandalorian follows you without question, keeping close to dissuade any fool looking to rob you. There are three large ships on the outskirts that you drift towards, keeping your distance so as not to appear suspicious and because you can’t stand being so close to the feeling.

From his carrier, the child begins to whine.

Without preamble, you’re at the kid’s side and his tiny hands are in yours. His ears droop and those big eyes of his keep going from the direction of the ships to you.

“Easy there, little guy. It’s ok.”

There’s no explanation, but you know what the child means when he looks at you, when he whines and frets a little. There’s a restless surge of energy around him, sharp strikes springing from a deep torrent. It _hurts_.

“I know, I know, I-we can’t help them yet. We will. I promise. But we can’t get them now… we will. But if we go get them now, that’ll put us in danger and those folks in even more so. Understand? If we follow the plan, we can get them all somewhere safe without anyone else getting hurt. We just have to be patient.”

That eases some of the restlessness, no longer spiking. It’s the best you can do. Your heart lightens a little when the child manages the faintest smile at you, for you.

“Thank you,” you say with a shrug. “This is just… one of those things.”

“What things?”

Mando keeps his visor on the child, and his voice is oddly strained. You let go of the little green hands and stand up to face him. There are three guards, you notice when you peek past Mando’s arm. One for each ship. For now, at least. It’s only when you look back at Mando that you notice he’s now watching you.

He tilts his head towards you, like he’s got a secret to share. “You can speak with the kid?”

“Um… sort of? I think I just guessed his side of it, like I translated his feelings.”

“His feelings?” You give him a nod. “Huh… and what-what about me?”

It’s your turn to tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

“Can you… do you translate my feelings?”

For a moment that probably feels like eons to him, you stare at Mando. It’s not that you can’t feel him, there’s certainly a presence and an energy about him. But you watch him, like now, standing there, stock still save for the small twitches that give him away.

“Not really. I kind of… don’t need to. I mean, I can feel that you have an energy, and I could probably pick you out in a crowd with my eyes closed, it’s not hard for me to recognize you now.”

“What do I feel like?”

“A little cold. It’s like you’re sort of too cold to get comfortable with.”

“Great.”

“But it might have to do with you being a Mandalorian… maybe? I haven’t met other Mandalorians. And I don’t mind it, and the kid doesn’t seem bothered by it.”

“Mhm.”

“But-but you’re also steady. Lot’s of other people buzz or swirl about, but you’re solid and…sure. Indomitable.”

“…yeah?”

You nod.

“Hm. Alright. What about you?”

“Me? Oh, an absolute mess,” you scoff, unable to hide your grin. It earns you a modulated huff that you take as a laugh. “No, my master said that I’m kind of cold too, so there’s that. He didn’t seem to think it was a bad thing, though.”

“Are other people not cold?”

“Oh, absolutely. Some people burn hot. Others feel like an ache, others a sting. I might be getting the terminology wrong but it’s how I see it.”

Mando is quiet for a moment, still starting at you. Something seems to shake him, and he turns his head ever so slightly towards the three ships behind him.

“They in there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice low and riddled with simmering anger. “They’re in the two outer ones, the middle one is empty.”

“…and how do they feel?”

Mando looks back at you and somehow his cold energy feels calm, like when the cold seeps into exhaustion, a slow and soothing sensation. Your voice is shaky, despite the comfort. “They feel scared.”

There’s a hand on your shoulder and tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. You look up at Mando and you rest your hand gently on his.

“We’ll get them,” he says. “Soon, they won’t have to be scared anymore.”

“Yeah,” you respond a little stronger, a little surer this time. “Yeah, we will.”

~

The three of you wait around long enough for Zax to arrive. He looks brighter today, ready. The young boy takes your hand and places a small square of red fabric in your hand. There are inked markings on it, and you look at him for an explanation.

“It’s a charm,” he says proudly. “It’ll help you win the race.”

“Oh… wow. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe.”

You pocket the piece of fabric in the breast pocket of your jacket, smiling at the boy to stave of the tears from how _soft_ your heart feels.

Cara arrives soon after, Mando fills her in on the location of the victims and she offers to check in with Zax’s people.

“You’ve got a race to win, best get going before you miss it.” Cara says with a smile, before taking Zax’s offered hand and following him into the crowd.

“Come on,” Mando hums. One of his large hands pushes your shoulder to guide you in the opposite direction of Cara and the boy. You walk side by side, easing your way out of the crowd that seems just as keen to be rid of you both. Neither of you say a word as you make your way to your speeder. The guard at the entrance doesn’t even look your way.

It’s less crowded, surprisingly. Half of the races have already moved out to the starting area of the race; you can hear the torrent of the crowd that has gathered a short distance away. Mando follows you to your speeder where your goggles hang from the bars. You grab them, and settle them on your head, resting just above your forehead.

“Everything seems to be here,” you mumble. The engine sounds fine when you turn it on, none of the wires are cut, and the breaks and accelerator work just fine as you guide the speeder out of the lot.

“Wow, now that’s a crowd.” As you walk out onto the flat, you find the source of the waves of noise. Hundreds of people, more than you thought were in Mos Espa, were either seated or standing along the outer edge of the city. In the middle of it all stands a small stage that raised the occupants above the heads of the crowd.

You reach across through the Force and you find him. Rafe Nol. He feels like a slithering mass of poison. It’s sickly and makes you feel like there’s slime sliding down your back.

“Nol’s there, on the stage like the posturing ass he is.”

It sounds like Mando is smiling when he asks, “How many guards?”

“Two beside him, four on the ground at the corners.”

“Any in the crowd?”

“Ah… maybe five? Could be six? There’s too many people to tell.”

“That leaves only a handful for the ships.” You look up at Mando, confused. “Cara had a bunch of intel when she recruited me for this job. Seems like our Warlord doesn’t like paying more people than he has to.”

“So, a small guard? For his sake, they better be damn good shots. Just a shame for him that he’s pissed of a Shock trooper and a Mandalorian.”

“And an amazing rider.”

It’s difficult to keep walking when your heart suddenly kicks into gear. They’re your words, but they sound better from his mouth. There’s heat in your cheeks, which is a problem because it’s already too damn hot. The only thing Mando notices is the small smile that flutters along your mouth.

Slowly, the racers and their teams all congregate a few meters from the start. This crowd is much louder, with engines coming to life and last-minute adjustments being done. Excitement and trepidation whir about the crowd like a physical presence. It’s hard not to yield to it, your body already feeling like a live wire.

“You alright?”

Mando’s voice cuts through the crowd, taking hold of your focus with barely any effort. There’s something oddly calming in staring at the visor pointed in your direction, a constant, unchangeable point to concentrate on.

“Yeah… everything’s just- it’s all coming together faster than I am. It’ll be fine, though. I’m ready.”

“Here.” With steady hands, Mando takes hold of your wrist. You’re not sure why, but your chest tightens around your stuttering heartbeat. You only register what Mando is doing when you hear a faint ‘click’. As his hands pull away, you see a small band around your wrist with a single button and a tiny light next to it.

“It’s the detonator,” he says. “Attach it to the handles of your speeder before the race. You’ll need to press the button when you’re in range of the traps, that’s when the light will go blue. It’ll detonate whichever one you’re closest to. And you’ve also got my comm-link if you need to reach me.”

“Yeah. So, I’ll need to stick close enough to the top five to set the traps off but not so close that I get squashed along with them. Got it. Will you be alright, getting the others out?”

“We can handle it. You just focus on winning, and not getting crushed.”

“That’s a tall ask there, Mando. But I’ll try.”

Your tone is light, joking, and there’s a small, encouraging smile on your face. Somehow, beneath the cold and steady energy you feel, there’s the tiniest waver in Mando’s resolve. You almost have a name for it, but then a horn blares in the distance, making you jump, and both of you turn to see the other racers heading towards the start line.

“That’s my cue.” Neither of you move. “I should go.”

Mando stays staring at you, and you at him. Even though there’s a helmet in the way and there aren’t any physical tells, you can’t help but think that he has something to say. Instead, he reaches out again and places one of his large hands on your forearm.

“Be safe,” he says, and you can’t tell if it’s an order or a request. All you can manage is a determined nod before you’re pushing the speeder towards the start line. Once you’ve seated yourself, you attach the small band from your wrist onto the handle next to the break as discreetly as you can. There are racers on either side of you, both in the top five. They sit comfortably, confidently, and you catch the eye of the one on your right. He looks at you for a moment before snapping his goggles over his eyes. You do the same, and you adjust your scarf over your mouth, then turn to watch the flagbearer.

You see the first flag, a bright yellow that stands out against the blue sky.

First is the straight, gain your speed and get out of the cluster. Save the boost for after the first bend.

The second flag. Another yellow.

There are eight bends, a wide right, two sharp lefts, a right turn preceding a short-straight into another right turn before veering off to the left alongside a cliff face. Three that zig-zag through a chasm: right, left, right, a tight left into a long-straight and then the final right turn that leads into the last stretch when your second hit at the boost should be available.

The green flag.

The speeder rips forward with a guttural roar, buzzing violently beneath you. The two racers beside you pull ahead and swerves in front of you. You pay them little heed, easing behind them and up on their left.

There’s a gap that forms just ahead of you, between a another of the top five and one who you think is a Senator’s son. All of you reach the first bend which is a smooth, arching right. The boost is beneath your thumb and you wait just another heartbeat before pressing it.

The cluster of riders falls away as you and a few others pull ahead. Beside you is one of the five. She doesn’t even look at you as she takes the first of the left turns. When she disappears around the corner, the blue flight flashes dimly and you press it without hesitating.

No one sees it, but it’s difficult to miss the sound of rock exploding. The sight you find around the corner is difficult to face, but the second corner comes too quick and you have no time to linger.

Two racers pull head of you on the sharp left, one of the top five and another random. Over your shoulder, there’s the rest of the group. Some furious faces glare at you as you put more distance between them. You lose them on the approaching right turn, and the blue light come on. It’s just you on the short straight and you wait until your just at the right turn just ahead to press the button.

The path veers left, and you catch sight of the other two racers before they hit the zig-zag, too far away from the trap in the wall to your left. Looking over your shoulder again, you see one of the other top five that was behind you catch up. His scaly face is twisted in rage and he banks towards you sharply. There is no sign of the other two as the rest of the cluster round the corner far behind you.

The light goes blue and you decelerate enough that the racer beside you pulls ahead in front. You press the button, and then there is an explosion to your left as part of the cliffside erupts. Rocks and boulders begin to rain down, and you swerve to avoid the larger pieces, and the Force comes to your aid for the smaller debris.

There are shouts and screams behind you, and you feel a small source of the Force snuff out. Another of the top five has been dealt with, while one of the other riders is knocked from their speeder, and you feel both elated and disturbed.

But there’s no time for that.

You hit the zigzag and it takes some time and finesse to get around it. But you accelerate and decelerate smoothly enough that you’re out in no time. The sharp left comes up quickly and that takes a fair amount of effort to swing around.

Just as you do, you see the one you’re after kick at the other racer’s engine, causing him to spin out of control. At this rate, you’ll probably be too far away to detonate the trap. But much to your luck and unease, the racer you’re after turns to look behind. There’s a flash of yellow teeth and soon you’re coming up beside him. 

He smiles at you, taking the time to give you a little wave and keeping uncomfortably close. The right turn is coming up, your last chance, and you try to decelerate just a touch. But he sticks to your side, drifting slightly closer to you.

He knows.

He _must_ know.

The blue light flashes and you know exactly which trap this is. It’s the last one, and probably the fucking worst. You look at the racer, he looks at you, and there’s still a terrible grin on his face: all teeth, no kindness.

It’s almost like time slows down. Each breath is even, every muscle is relaxed but steady. When you look, the light is still blue, but it won’t be for much longer. The racer beside you drifts closer, like a dare, and there’s no mistaking the flash of fear within the confidence.

You press the button.

The ground erupts before you.

The rider next to you gets hurled from his ride and smacks into the wall to his right.

It takes an exhausting amount of energy to force your speeder away from the eruption, and up onto the wall, using the momentum to keep you arching over the worst of it. The glide back down is rough, and there’s a nasty squeal of metal against rock as you slide off the rock wall and around the last corner.

Every fibre of your being is both dog-tired and humming at once. You did it. You fucking _did it._

The boost light comes on and it’s pressed more out of muscle memory than thought. The final stretch isn’t even that much of a stretch, not at this speed. The finish line is upon you quicker than your brain registers, and suddenly a horn is blaring and there are voices cheering out like a storm.

Everything after the horn is a blur.

A crowd swarms to you, patting your arms and grabbing at your hands. Somehow, you and your speeder are guided to the podium that has appeared out of nowhere. They sort of leave you standing on the highest step while the other racers are quickly collected once the race is over.

The second and third place winners are quite pleased with themselves, if a little shaken. There’s a speech which you don’t hear, too caught up in the nerves and adrenaline that has nowhere to go.

It isn’t until a guard grabs at your arm and begins dragging you to the stage that you finally snap back into reality. You won, you actually won. The top five didn’t. Only one of them made it to the finish line, which fills you with a sick sort of triumph.

You’re shoved up the steps of the stage, with the crowd still a sea of noise and revelry beneath you. One of the guards throws over a sizable brown bag, and as you catch it, there is the unmistakable sound of credits. You give him a nod, then turn to the main even.

Rafe Nol.

The Warlord smiles without an ounce of joy. When he extends his hand out, you have to fight the urge to recoil, and you bite the inside of your cheek as he shakes your hand.

“Congratulations,” he spits, no longer concerned with charm in such proximity. “Quite the skilled racer you are. Mighty impressive.”

“Thank you,” you bite back. “It was quite the race to be a part of. Far more excitement than we were expecting, I think.”

“It certainly wasn’t what we were expecting, no.” The smile that slowly drags across his face gives you pause. “You and I have a mutual friend, did you know?”

“Oh, really?”

“Indeed. I’ve heard our friend _misses_ you quite dearly.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention as a chills ricochet through you. Nol notices your hesitation and pulls you forward. The cologne he wears is distracting, a warm spice with something citrusy mixed in. His mouth is right beside your ear and you cringe at his warmth breath crawling down your neck.

“If I find _any_ of my… guests missing, I will call our friend and let her know all about your little victory. I’m sure she’d be happy to come see you at a moment’s notice.”

“Don’t you _dare_.” You snap, trying and failing to calm the anger boiling in your chest.

Nol chuckles darkly. “Then don’t touch what’s mine.”

You wrench yourself back and you slap your hand away. There’s a smile still on his face, smug and triumphant, he winks and your fists instantly furl.

“Thanks for the prize money,” you hiss. “I’ll be sure not to spend it all in one place.”

Before Rafe Nol can respond, you turn on your heel and march off. Your heart is still beating way too fast, and the chills don’t cease until you’re away from the crowd and back with your speeder.

“ _You alright?_ ”

It’s Mando, of course it is. His voice brings on as much peace as it does panic. You need to get off Mos Espa. But you need to make sure they’re alright first.

“Where are you?”

“ _At the kid’s home. They’re sorting everyone into temporary places till backup gets here. No one’s hurt, the guards got knocked out._ ”

“Good. That’s good.”

“ _What is it?_ ”

There really is no time for this, everyone is safe, and you could easily leave the pouch of credits on Mando’s ship. Your voice is weaker than you’d like when you ask, “…can you meet me at the Crest? So I can give you the credits?”

“ _Sure._ ”

As soon as the comm drops, you’re shoving at your speeder. You head to the lot first, to drop it off and to pick up your pack. Then, you’re running. Not an all-out bolt, but fast enough that it keeps the panic at bay, and not so fast that people think to keep an eye on you.

Once at the shipyard, you start scouring the area for a pilot. It takes more time than you’re comfortable with to find one that isn’t one-turned-back away from stabbing you. The pilot is a Pantoran, with blue skin and white hair. He’s older, one of those gruff, quiet old men that trusts nothing and no one. But he _does_ trust the value of your credits with only a hint of effort on your part. He also just happens to be leaving relatively soon, since the race is over, and he won his bet on the third-place racer.

It takes another couple of credits to convince him to wait for you.

For a few moments, you wait, keeping an eye on the crowd for signs of a particular someone. You barely notice Mando approaching, and when you do, he’s already right in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, sounding unimpressed, maybe a little angry.

“I won.”

“I know. But why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re scared.”

Your throat feels tight, and your head is a mess. When you pass the pouch of credits to Mando, your hand is shaking. Before you can pull away, Mando’s other hand falls heavily on your shoulder. And if that wasn’t enough, all you can concentrate on is his thumb that rests on the side of your neck. It drifts up, then down, then up again, before drifting down once more.

His voice is soft and raspy at the same time. “Hey, Sunshine.”

“I thought I was starlight.”

“You can be both.”

“Yeah?”

He nods.

“I… I have to go.”

“I know.”

Your heart stops for a moment. “What?”

“I heard Nol. Heard what he said. You need to go.”

“But-”

The grip on your shoulder tightens, and Mando’s voice is no longer soft. “Go. You need to.”

“What about the-?”

“Cara and I can handle it. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” you say, confident in Mando’s assured tone. “Mando…if you ever need to contact me, for anything, even just to chat or ask about mechanic stuff, feel free to do it. It would be nice to hear from you. You’ve got my comm-link, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “And I will.”

All too soon, you turn away from the Mandalorian and board the Pantoran’s ship. You strap into the co-pilot’s chair, after dumping your gear at your feet. The Pantoran doesn’t care, he just wants the hell off this planet. Just as the thruster power up, you glance out one of the little windows to your right. Mando’s still where you left him, standing out like a shiny statue in the busy crowd. You give him a little wave, hoping that he can see the small gesture. But before you can confirm it, the ship takes off and you’re hurtling up and out of orbit.

It isn’t clear where you’re travelling to, and it’s not the first time you’ve escaped like this.

But it is the first time, in a long time, that it has been so difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God. Damn.  
> This beast of a chapter nearly finished me off. And not in the fun way.  
> The next chapter will be smaller, but it will be Mando-centric, so that's fun. 
> 
> Anyway, I will be on schedule this time, next Friday, I have spoken. 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


	6. One of those unfortunate moments no one talks about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some wounds take eons to heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is significantly shorter than the last one, sorry if that's a bother.  
> I've been reading up a whole lot on Star Wars lore to fill in the gaps of my knowledge, and I kind of got stuck on the existence of wounds in the Force, like what happened above Malachor V and on Alderaan. So this kind of got a little poetic and whimsical.  
> Also, a warning for slight torture (arm twisting) and derogatory terms in regards to a female. 
> 
> I think we would all be surprised if there were no grammatical errors. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

_~_

_There are dark spots in the universe._

_Not dark due to lack of light, but darkened, fragile, broken places._

_Something happened there. Nothing good. And existence broke a little. It was hurt and the universe remembers, willing or not. The hurt is kept, to warn whatever comes after._

_No one thinks to heal these places, to ease the pain until the universe can stitch together the seams that continue to ache. No one really can. Not when the echoes have lingered for so long that they have nestled into their new homes. Not when memory calls them ‘bad places’._

_Thus, these places, these wounds, sit in the dark spots of the universe, never quite forgetting._

_~_

If you had told Rafe Nol that he would be face to face with a Mandalorian, he would have laughed and asked what you were drinking. But one stands before him now, decked out in shiny beskar, and his weapons strapped to his belt and back.

After hearing all the noise outside, Nol had decided that the best approach would be appearing casual; strewn out across his own little throne. Let whoever was barging in here think he wasn’t ready. Then he’d surprise whatever idiot came through those doors.

What Nol isn’t ready for is the Mandalorian that stalks quietly towards him.

He lets out an uproarious laugh with his hands wide in welcome. “What is a Mandalorian like you doing in my neck of the woods?”

Mando says nothing, just stands there, statue still and dead quiet. Rafe barks a laugh and jumps from his chair. The way he swaggers over, overblown confidence and delusional humour, doesn’t completely hide the fear. He’s right in front of Mando, looking at all the beskar like he’s trying to figure out the price. It’s condescending, arrogant, and utterly foolish.

“You gone deaf or what?” The sneer on his face falters when Mando tilts his visor down to look at him.

Quick as a whip, Mando has Nol’s arm bent behind his back, one hand on his shoulder and the other at his wrist, before Nol lowers to his knees.

“Did you send the message?” Nol never knew a voice could sound like razors.

“What?!” He cries out through the pain. “You’re gonna break my fucking arm!”

Mando twists just slightly, making Nol screech. “If I bring your arm down on my knee, it _will break._ Now, answer me.”

“What?”

“The message. Did you send it?”

“What kriffing message?!”

“When you threatened the racer who won, you said you’d send a message to those chasing her. Did. You. Send. It?”

He twists a little bit more and Mando can tell that it would take barely any more pressure. Nol screeches again, tears stinging in his eyes.

“No! I didn’t- I haven’t. _Fuck_! I didn’t send the message!”

“Good. And if you do, I won’t bother knocking when I come back for you.”

Mando releases him in an instant before walking away as Nol slumps to the floor, arm clutched to his chest.

Unfortunately, Rafe Nol cannot help himself.

“Oh, I see.” The Warlord can’t help but find this funny, his smile is sharp, almost impish. “Heh- Didn’t know Mandalorians were suckers for a nice pair of legs. Got hers wrapped around you? Is that why you killed all my men? Just because a whore like her gets on her kne-”.

No one says anything when the Mandalorian strides out of Rafe Nol’s estate. No one mentions the lack of guards, the sounds of gunfire, not even the quiet that follows for several days later. It’s about a week before someone is brave enough to check.

Not a tear is shed at the loss. Nor is there a word of cheer or thanks.

Over time, the estate will be abandoned. People will say it is because of a curse, because of decay, because of the voices that echo in the dark corners. They will forget the Mandalorian, the beskar he wore that shone too bright in the sun, the rifle strapped across his back like a warning sign. The race is already forgotten, the dead remain beneath the rubble and the victors are long gone.

Only the cheer is remembered. How there was one day, in the unforgiving heat, that there was a reason to be excited. That there was a reason to cheer. A few remember a kind deed that came from strangers. There are even fewer who owe them their lives, but they just do their best to forget, grateful as they are.

What happened in the estate is not one of those circumstances you celebrate; you just try to forget it and move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in the next one :)


	7. some hauntings are habitual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Friday, my dudes. 
> 
> There will be grammatical errors, as per usual. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

“Try it now,” you call out, wedged halfway into a wall panel.

There’s a click and then a drawn-out groan.

“Nope! Still just flickering at me, the stupid kriffing-”

“Now?”

“…Oh, yep. There you go! We’ve got a connection!”

“Finally,” you mutter as you wiggle your way out of the wall panel.

You shuffle the metal back into place before packing up your tools. The woman who hired you, a Mirialan with a few facial tattoos and pink skin, slips out of the pilot’s seat and comes to your side.

“I had checked the wiring three times.” She huffs, kicking the recently replaced panel.

“Half the wires in there look the same.” You offer with a shrug. “And you probably shouldn’t kick that, not after all the work I put into it.”

“True. Here, your payment.” From her pocket, she pulls out several credits and drops them in your palm. “You’re sure I can’t offer you a ride? Coruscant isn’t exactly your favourite place, Grease.”

“Really? Brissina, it was a tiny patch-”

“You were covered head to toe.”

“Your memory is broken. Got see a doctor, get it checked out.”

“That’s advice you should be taking. But seriously, I could take you someplace quieter, free of charge. You’ll just have to help with any other faulty wires.”

There’s a pang in your chest at the kind offer, and it would be nice to spend more time with Brissina, after so long apart. “Not this time, old friend. I’ve got business here. And Coruscant isn’t so bad, I like being around people.”

“Yeah, but these people? They don’t seem your type, Grease.”

“It’s funny you should say that because these _are_ my people. I was born here.”

Brissina’s face is almost comical as she stops. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“You? Here?”

“Oh yeah, a genuine Coruscant baby right in front of you.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed. You here for family, then?”

There’s that tone she gets, when she wants information, but she doesn’t want to seem like she’s after it. But the way Brissina elongates the ‘family’, and raises the note on ‘then’, it’s a dead giveaway.

“No, and don’t bother asking anymore about it. I’m here for information, nothing else.”

Brissina visibly sags with disappointment. “Oh, well that’s not exciting.” She gives you a smile and you return the gesture. “As fun and wonderful as it’s been seeing you again, I must ask you to get off my ship if you’re not coming with. I’ve got a client waiting for me in the Outer Rim, of all places. One of those fretful types, y’know?”

“I know the type. Get going then and stay safe.”

“Always am.” Brissina says as she wraps you in a hug. Her body is small, but there’s a strength there that you’ve had the displeasure of disregarding once. “You take care of yourself. And don’t run yourself ragged with all this planet hopping.”

You let her go in time for her to see you rolling your eyes. She gives you a playful slap on the back once you’ve slung your pack over your shoulder. Brissina watches you as you shuffle down the ramp and back onto solid ground. When you turn around, she’s still smiling.

“Maybe you should think about settling down one day. You can’t keep running about forever, Grease.”

“I will when you do,” you call out, fighting back the melancholia. “I’ll see you around, Brissina. I promise.”

“You better.” Is all she says before your friend turns around and disappears into her ship. You stand where you are, watching as the ship gears up before taking off. It isn’t until there’s nothing more than a speck in the sky that you finally head off.

Coruscant is one of the more impressive places you have been, certainly one of the busiest. But, despite the prestige of being at the centre of civilized society, Coruscant is just like any other city, just with a more obnoxious façade. There are people with power, people without, both clawing and scheming to keep it. There are those following the law, those enforcing the law, others who are breaking it, and those who simply use it for their own gain. And then there’s the poor bastards in the middle, just trying to feed themselves and their families without getting robbed or killed.

Getting away from the main drag, away from the prim-and-proper folks who valued pride and prestige over warm meal and good company. The former of which you were in search of. It doesn’t take you long to reach the restaurant you want, having been there before countless times. It’s a ‘hole in the wall’ place, run by the same couple whose families have been serving food to the working class of Coruscant for generations. It’s not the best food, nothing on the menu really thrills you, but their caf is halfway decent and that’s good enough.

When you go in, on of the daughters, Vinola, is there in the standard electric blue tunic and matching cap. The colour looks strange against her thin, green hair.

“You’re back,” she says, glancing up from her holo pad before turning back to the kitchen behind her. “Yarnie, a seven with a side of curlers. You want caf?”

“Ah, yeah, thanks.” She sets about making it, turning on the machine to her right and pressing a few buttons. Vinola sets a cup in the gap and turns back to you.

“How long you in town for?”

“Not long, just in transit.”

“Transit huh? You’ll miss the oldies.”

“I’ll have to ask you to tell your parents I said hello.”

Vinola shrugs.

You approach the counter and lean your hip against it. From this point, you can see someone moving about in the back. “How’s Seph?” you ask, handing over your credits. “He was sick with something, last time I was in town.”

“Sick? Don’t remember that. He’s married now, to Niamh from down by the river. Her mum’s an antiques cleaner.”

“Oh, yeah, certainly need those. For all the dusty antiques.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m not dusty, and these clothes are clean.”

“No,” Vinola rolls her eyes. “You married yet?”

“No, untethered as always.”

“Ma could probably find you someone.”

“I know she could.” A plate of noodles and a side of battered curls of some sort of meat slide through the bench just behind Vinola.

“Your food, and your caf,” she says, handing it all to you. “Sitting out, as usual?”

It’s your turn to shrug, “creature of habit.”

There are two small tables outside, underneath the electric blue awning, with two chairs each. You take your place at the one farthest from the door and settle in. There’s a small marketplace in front of you, several stalls and booths lined up in the middle of the square, surrounded by restaurants and domiciles. At one of the booths, there are swathes of fabric of all kinds of colours and textures. Along the small display shelves are sewing supplies and a couple of printed images with clothing designs on them.

The people running the stall are human, dressed simply compared to the fabrics around them. Even from here, you can hear the woman’s bright laughter as her partner, an older man, by the grey streaks through his hair, says something with a tilted smile.

You take a sip of your caff, before going for the noodles, hoping the bitterness can stave off the initial tinge of sour the broth gives. It’s not bad, and the sour doesn’t come through on the second bite, thankfully. You’re about to try for a third bit when you feel a buzzing in your pocket. It’s your commlink. You pull it out, only now hearing the beeping, and there’s code flashing on the little screen.

You know the code, although you’ve never used it. After taking a hasty sip of caff, you hold the commlink up to your face and press the button.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite Mandalorian.” You say, smiling to yourself.

“ _I thought I was the only one you knew_.”

“You are.”

“ _Then I would automatically be your favourite._ ”

“Now you’re cruising towards least favourite.”

“ _Mhm_.”

You look up as you hear a thunderous laugh coming from the man at the stall. He’s talking to a couple who laugh along with him. The woman is talking, her hands flourishing about as she tells some kind of story. _Maker_ , you really want to hear it.

After a moment, you realize you’ve not said anything to Mando. Clearing your throat, you shuffle on your chair and ask, “Is everything alright or is this a casual communication?”

The comm goes quiet long enough for you to check the connection.

“Mando?”

“ _…you said I could call you._ ”

“I did say that, back on Mos Espa.”

“ _I know. I was there._ ”

“Right, right.” You’re not sure why, but a smile spreads across your face, and your chest feels better, like you can breathe easier. “It’s good to hear from you. You and Cara get that situation sorted alright?”

“ _Yeah, they’re safe. You?_ ”

“I’m good, I…”

The woman is smiling broadly, telling a joke to the Twi’lek in front of her, with a swath of cobalt fabric in her hands. The man beside her listens, his dark eyes look gentle, even from this distance.

“Y-yeah, I’m alright. I’ve been picking up odd jobs here and there.”

“ _Sounds busy where you are_.”

“Coruscant never does shut up, in all honesty.”

“ _You’re on Coruscant?_ ”

“Mhm, probably can’t stick around, though.

“ _Why?_ ”

Because it’s an overwhelming place, for a multitude of reason. “Not dressed for it.” You answer. “I suspect I have a day before I’m asked to either change my outfit or leave.” No one else seems to be waring cargo pants, a singlet and a beat-up jacket with some heavy boots that have seen better days.

There’s a huff that you almost missed, as static and quiet as it was, but when Mando responds, you can still hear the humour in his voice. “ _Yeah, I’ve been issued a few notices myself_.”

You bark a laugh. “Brave bastards, sending _you_ a notice. What did it say? Something like, wear a nice scarf or get lost please?”

“ _They usually suggest a hat_.”

“Funny that, I can see one from here. A nice forest green, wide brimmed with a massive feather. It’d look great on you.”

“ _Mhm._ ”

“How’s the small one doing?”

“ _The kid? He’s fine. A little sad_.”

“Sad? Why, what did you do?”

“I _didn’t do anything. He wanted to stay with the frog babies even though he ate several of their siblings-_ ”

“Wait, wait, what? Frog babies? He _ate_ them?”

Mando proceeds to tell you about his travels, about the Frog lady and her husband. It all sounds utterly wholesome, and it warms something in your chest. There’s a smile plastered on your face during the whole story even while you eat.

“You’ve been busy. It’s a shame I missed it.”

“ _Yeah… what about you? I can’t be the only one having adventures._ ”

“Hmm… just been helping an old friend or two, keeping out of the way, mostly. Though I did get roped into hauling a bunch of banthas to a different system by one of them.”

“ _Roped in how?_ ”

“My friend said that he and his crew needed a mechanic onboard, keep up the maintenance during such a long haul. They offered to pay, and then added the promise of a go in his old X-wing since it would be such a long flight.”

“ _And did you get to?_ ”

“Nah, one thing led to another and we got attacked by pirates. Barely managed to get out of that, especially since we almost lost the banthas.”

“ _That’s a shame_.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll happen one day. Hopefully, you can be there to see it, and I can show you all the tricks I learned.”

“ _I’d like that_.”

From underneath the static, you hear a series of alarms going off. Mando curses, and shuffles about, hitting buttons.

“Mando? You alright there?”

“ _Shit- not you. Sorry. I need to go._ ”

“Are you alright?”

“ _I’m fine. I have to go… I’ll call you when I can. And I’ll tell the kid you said hi._ ”

“Ah-thanks, Mando. Be safe.”

“ _You too,_ ka’r _-”_ The call drops, and your commlink gives you nothing but static. Part of you is worried, there’s a twisting in your chest. But this is Mando, and you’re pretty sure that he’s invincible with all that beskar.

It suddenly doesn’t feel right sitting around. The food and caff are gone quickly before you stand up. There are dozens of people in the square, and it’s a little tricky to weave through them as you put the hood of your jacket up and adjust your scarf to cover your mouth and nose. You make a shaky beeline for the booth with the couple and their fabrics. The woman at the booth catches sight of your approach and smiles widely.

“Hello there, sweetheart. Are you interested in anything here?”

Part of you really, really wants to grab the hat, but instead you ask for one of the sewing kits.

“Good idea,” she says, already grabbing one. “Travelling around tends to ware your clothes down.”

“You have no idea,” you reply, keeping your tone light. The man comes up beside the woman, snaking an arm around her waist.

“You’re a star-farer, huh? I bet you’ve seen all kinds of things.” He says, his voice deep and warm, like his dark eyes.

“Too much and too little, the galaxy is bigger than I ever expected.”

“True,” he says as the woman begins wrapping up your purchase. “My wife, here, and I have always wanted to travel. Maybe to some quiet planet where the people aren’t up to much, settle quietly into retirement.”

“You two look a little far off from retirement.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet.” The woman says with a chuckle. She hands you your kit and you hand her some credits. The woman’s smile twitches, like she’s fighting off a frown. “Here, you’ve paid too much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, waving her hand away. “That retirement plan sounds too good not to help out with.”

“That’s very sweet of you.” You shrug.

“You take care out there, star-farer,” the man says when you turn to leave.

“The same to the two of you.”

With your kit in hand, you make your way back towards the busier parts of the city, where the port is. You’ve had enough of Coruscant, having been stuck here for two days. It’s a nice planet, you’ll give it that, but you were lying to Brissina when you said you were here for information. There’s no information here, only bad memories and semi-decent caf.

The only thing worth coming back for, in your tired opinion, is that ridiculous hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, we will actually see Din in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for all the love so far and I hope you guys continue to enjoy where this story is going. 
> 
> See you in the next one :)

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't make these characters, obviously, and I won't claim otherwise.  
> You all know how this works :)


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